Remember Me
by Professor R.J Lupin1
Summary: Peter Parker had been missing for three whole months, and Tony was loosing hope. But when Clint Barton finds a kid on the side of the road who can't seem to remember how he got there or who he is but somehow manages to stick to the ceiling, it may just be Tony's lucky day. ON HIATUS
1. Prologue

**A/N: I'm not quitting writing The Consequences of War or I Am Saiph Goddamn Pekuliar, but I got this idea and couldn't wait to start it. I'm also kind of stumped on how to continue the Consequences of War and I'm waiting until I see Infinity War again tomorrow to write the next chapter of I Am Saiph Goddamn Pekuliar.**

 **Also, I don't know the exact ages of Hawkeye's middle and oldest children and I couldn't find it, so for the sake of this fic, Lila is five and Cooper is eight. If you know their actual ages, please let me know.**

 **I hope that I didn't get anything too terribly wrong surrounding Hawkeye, because I'm not an expert and had to do some research.**

 **As always, please review and enjoy!**

 **Prologue**

Clint Barton had been having a pretty good day.

Firstly, Lila had drawn him a very nice picture of their family. Secondly, Nathan had finally thrown off the cold he'd had, and Cooper had hit his first home run. Admittedly, there were only two people playing, so it wasn't exactly impossible, but Clint was proud of him nonetheless.

And so when he got in the car to go and pick up some milk so Laura could make the kids milkshakes for desert, he thought that that would be good, too. And the trip there was fine. It was what happened on his way that was so bad.

The road that led from the town to his home was long and straight. It wasn't exactly the hardest thing to drive on. Clint didn't have to pay much attention as he drove along.

The sun had long since lowered into the horizon, plunging the world into semi-darkness. It was a moonless night, so Clint's headlights shown out against the dark.

Clint nearly jumped a foot in the air when he saw something moving on the side of the road.

 _It's just some animal, like a raccoon or a squirrel,_ Clint told himself as he continued to drive.

But the thing moved again, and as his headlights bathed it in light, Clint realized that it was not a squirrel. It was human.

Clint stopped the car and hopped out. Whoever this was couldn't possibly pose a threat, right? Clint may not have his bow, but he still was a highly trained assassin. He could take a random, possibly homeless person.

Clint pulled out his phone and called Laura. After two rings, she answered.

"Clint? What's wrong?" she asked. In the background, Clint could hear Lila ask, ' _where's Daddy?'_ and he smiled slightly.

"Uh, I'm gonna be a little late."

"What? Why—Cooper, just a second, I'm on the phone."

"I'll explain when I get home," Clint answered, bending down to examine the seemingly unconscious person curled on the grass.

"Okay, but don't take too long." With that, Clint hung up.

The person before him was very thin and exceptionally dirty. There was a backpack (which was also quite dirty) beside him, and as Clint got a closer look, he came to the conclusion that this man—no, this _boy_ —couldn't be any older that seventeen. And to make matters worse, there was a large bloody patch on his head and smaller, less fatal looking cuts littered the rest of his face. As Clint watched, a small spurt of blood poured out of the cut on his head. This kid wouldn't last long if he just stayed here.

Suddenly, something else came to mind. Tony had said something about a boy named—what was it? Pepper? No, that was his girlfriend. Peter! That was it. From what Clint could gather, this kid also happened to be Spider-Man, and hadn't been seen for about three months. Tony had vigorously searched for him, but was forced to come to the conclusion that he was gone.

Clint dialed Tony's number, hoping beyond hope that he picked up. He couldn't just leave this kid here, but couldn't exactly justify bringing a random kid home because he thought Tony might know him.

"C'mon, Tony," Clint whispered, watching as another burst of blood poured from the kid's head.

Finally, on the last ring, Tony picked up.

"Clint? What do you want?" Tony sounded as if he may have been sleeping.

"Tony, it's your lucky day."

 **A/N: How was it? Too short? I feel like it was, but it's the prologue, and that's usually short. I promise, the rest will be much longer.**

 **I hope everyone (cough, cough, Clint, cough, cough) stayed in character.**

 **Please review and I hope you enjoyed!**


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Thank you so much for all the feedback! It feels so wonderful to know that you all enjoyed the last chapter!**

 **As always, enjoy!**

 **But the way, the rest of the story will be from Peter's first person pov, unless expressly said so.**

 **Chapter 1**

My head pounded with agonizing throbs, but I'd long since learned to shut that out. The pain in the rest of my body seemed duller, somehow. It still hurt like hell, but it seemed to have lessened.

Although, my chest still burned and seared with every little movement and my leg continued to pound. I did notice, however, that something was wrapped tightly around it, but still the pain remained.

Everything simply _ached_.

Consciousness seemed to be sliding closer toward me, trying to pull me from the depths of bliss. I didn't want to. I wanted to stay under. I wouldn't feel the pain that much if I was under. I could hear sounds, too. It coupled with the pain and made my headache so much worse.

I shifted slightly and felt my broken ribs move along with my body, sending a fresh spike of pain through emanating through my chest. God, it hurt _so_ much.

The disconnected sounds that crashed into each other around my ears were getting clearer. I was able to distinguish a few words here and there. I heard the word 'Peter' most often, but what did that mean? It wasn't a word I was familiar with.

A full sentence broke through the barrier and buzzed into my head.

"Hey, Peter, can you hear me? C'mon, Pete, I know you're in there somewhere."

There that word was again. I was so confused. What on Earth did that mean?

"Come on, Peter, you can do this. For me? Just give me a sign that you're really still in there." The voice sounded so worried, and it startled something deep down, locked away in the past, the past that was so foggy, just a little picture here, or a word there. I wanted to reply, I wanted to console the desperate voice, but my body didn't seem to be cooperating. There was just something about that voice that made me feel that I should help. It was obviously in distress. I helped when someone was in distress.

I fought with my aching body for a moment, but I could already feel the pull of sleep calling me, tugging me back under. But before I went, I heard the same voice, although it seemed further away now, say,

"Not today, Bruce. We'll try again tomorrow."

"He's been through a lot, Tony. You gotta let him heal on his own time."

"I know, Bruce! But it's been three weeks! Shouldn't he have come back by now?"

…

I found myself coming out of unconsciousness again, feeling slightly more alert, but still, I felt completely and totally useless. I couldn't move, I could hardly think—had thinking always been this hard? I knew that thinking about anything too complicated was usually painful and stirred up all the Fog from before. God, I just wanted to know what happened during all that Fog! Maybe the voices from before could tell me. No, they were probably just waiting for me to wake up so they could hurt me more. That was how it worked, wasn't it?

…

I soon learned there was a very big difference between consciousness and not-unconscious. That was how I spent the next few—hours? Days? Years? Time had escaped me, it didn't matter anymore, all that mattered to me was controlling the pain, sifting through the Fog, trying to connect the things I could hear from outside of my hazy bubble.

I heard a lot of confusing conversations while in my comatose state. The voice I heard most often was one that I came to know as 'Tony'. That was the name that others used but he didn't.

Then there was a booming voice that spoke in weird, old fashioned terms that I didn't understand, and another who I believe was called 'Bruce' who talked about a lot of mumbo-jumbo that I couldn't make out, and then there were two female-sounding voices. One of them sometimes rapidly spoke in a language I didn't recognize and the other wasn't around enough for me to pick out a clarifying-characteristic.

I felt like I was sitting at the bottom of a very deep pool, and every once in a while I would gain enough strength to break the surface long enough to get a breath of air before I would sink back to the floor.

Oh, and every time I came to the top, I would try, I'd really try, to stay there, to really get a good gulp of air, but it never seemed to work. I couldn't make myself swim.

Okay, enough with that analogy now.

…

"Hey, kid, how're you doing today? Bruce says that your brain is getting more active, but we can only use a feeding tube for so long. You gotta come out, Pete, you just have to. I know whatever shit you went through was traumatic, and we're working on it, we really are, but I need you back." Tony paused. I thought that he was re-thinking his words, that he would take it all back, because it couldn't be real, it couldn't be real, but the way he spoke, he sounded so worried. And that alone made me want to come out, really, really, bad. "I miss you, kid. Every day you lay here, I feel like you get further away from me.

"I really miss you, Peter. Can't you come out, for me? I know you've got it in you, Pete. I've seen you stop a bus with your bare hands. I know you can do this." Woah, I stopped a bus with my bare hands? Awesome!

"Come on, Peter, you've been out for so long, I just want you to come back. Please, Pete, please…"

Tony was really worked up over this. I wanted to make him feel better, because that was what I did, wasn't it? Didn't I help people, back during the Fog? It seemed right, to help people.

And so I fought. I pleaded with my body, begged it to let me back out. I wanted to be free so bad, I wanted to come out, to help, to make sure Tony was okay. I wanted him to be happy. I wanted everyone to be happy. And if that meant I had to suffer a little? It was a small price to pay for people to be happy.

My hand twitched.

I heard a loud metallic screech. It sent my ears into sensory overdrive, and I instinctively moved my hands to cover them.

And it worked.

My arms were weak, stick-thin, but they made it. My hands didn't provide much protection, but it felt good to have them there.

"Peter," Tony said. "Peter, can you open your eyes?"

He must have been talking to me, because when I forced my eyes open, he looked ecstatic. It felt so good to have made someone so happy, when all I had been doing for the past… however-long was making people angry and disappointed.

"Oh, Peter, it's so good to see your eyes! Bruce!"

And there he went again, with the 'Peter'. What in the hell did that mean? Why did people keep saying that? What was so important about it?

Tony rambled for a few moments, as I scrutinized him, trying to figure out where I'd seen him before. Maybe I knew him during the Fog. There was definitely something familiar about him, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

"I was so worried, Peter, you wouldn't believe how worried I was!" Tony exclaimed, passing the length of the room.

This forced me to realize that wherever I was, was not where I'd last been. This place was bright and shiny and comfortable, and the old place was dirty and dark and hard. It was a sick trick, and I knew it, and soon enough I'd be back in the dark and in pain.

Tony continued to talk for a few moments, before I finally forced out the question that had been nagging me. Okay, there were a lot of questions that I had, but it was the prevailing one.

"What's a Peter?"

My voice was dry and wheezy, but I knew that he had understood.

Tony froze. He slowly turned to me and we locked eyes. He seemed to be searching mine. I couldn't understand why he didn't just answer my question, so I repeated it.

"What is a Peter?" My voice was slightly clear now, but it was still so hoarse. I still couldn't figure out where my sudden bout of bravery came from. They never let me ask questions.

Suddenly the weight of what I did crashed over me and I curled into a ball. I had to protect my already broken ribs for when the blows started.

But nothing did.

Tony only continued to stare at me, dumbstruck by what I had said.

I waited for him to react, still curled in on myself, shaking from head to toe. I didn't flinch when a hand landed on my back, but it was gentle. It was such a light touch, but I pulled away nonetheless. I had to protect myself.

"Peter, look at me," Tony said. I didn't trust him, but he'd been so happy a few moments ago. Maybe if I looked at him, that happiness would return.

So I lifted my head, ever so slightly but couldn't bring myself to meet his eyes. They didn't like it when I made eye contact anyway.

At that moment, a man entered. When he spoke, I realized that this was Bruce. He came over to me, and he and Tony spoke quietly. I could still pick up their conversation, however. I had always had good hearing. I supposed it was something I picked up during the Fog.

"Bruce, he doesn't know his name. He doesn't recognize me, Bruce! What did those bastards do to my so—intern?" Tony said.

"We'll run some tests, Tony. We'll get this figured out, I promise. Nat found some CCTV footage of the area where Clint found him. It's weird, Tony—it's almost like they wanted us to find him."

"I don't care if they wanted us to find him, Bruce! I care that we figure out what the hell those little shits did to his mind!" Tony yelled. Yeah, I didn't need to really listen to hear that one.

Bruce sat down on the end of my bed with a clipboard and pen in hand. "Peter," he said. "I am going to ask you some questions. I want you to answer as honestly and as well as you can. Okay?"

For a moment, I couldn't tell who he was talking to. Why did every keep saying 'Peter'? After a few seconds, however, I realized he had addressed me, so I gave a small nod. I recoiled with pain. Just the slight movement sent another throb through my already pounding head.

"Peter?" Tony asked. "What is it? What's wrong?"

I didn't answer. I closed my eyes and willed the pain to stop. Sometimes, that had worked. This was not one of those times.

I bit my lip to keep from crying out. They hated it when I screamed. They always me fun of me when I screamed.

I felt a hand on my back and immediately moved away from it. Touch was bad. Touch meant pain.

Through the haze of my agony, I heard Tony ask Bruce something.

"I think it's because he's been conditioned to think that touch brings pain."

I let a little whimper escape, and I instinctively moved my head to look at my captors. This time, I couldn't hold in my scream. It was a low, raspy sound, and when Bruce heard it he rushed to my side.

"Hey, bud, focus on me. Look at my eyes, buddy. Concentrate on my face, look at the details, come on, bud, focus."

I did as I was told, because disobeying always resulted in pain. I'd learned that pretty quickly. Soon enough, I had filed away the details of Bruce's face, and hadn't even noticed the receding pain.

And I slumped. I had been laying horizontally, and had been able to sit up a little, but now? Now I was physically and mentally drained. I slid down against the pillows behind me and burrowed deeper into the blankets. Even if this was a trick, I may as well enjoy the comfort while it lasts.

Bruce tried to ask a few questions, but with every word he spoke I found it harder to distinguish the noises, and my answers began to slur together. Eventually, Bruce sat up in defeat.

"We'll try again tomorrow," he said, more for Tony's benefit than his. "You get some more sleep, kiddo, and tomorrow we'll try to get some food down you."

Food? No, I couldn't do food. They'd give me food and then they'd go straight back into the routine and before long I'd barfed up anything that I had in me. There were so many times when I thought I would die of hunger. Perhaps that would have been a blessing.

Bruce had left the room, but Tony remained, sitting in chair beside his bed. I didn't like having another presence while I slept. It made me feel vulnerable, but for some reason, I figured I wasn't going to get him to leave.

Before long, I had drifted off into the quiet, the sweet blissful land that knew no pain, no suffering, but only silence.

 **A/N: See, I told you the next chapters would be longer!**

 **I really want to thank you guys for all the support I got on the first chapter. Almost fifty follows and eight reviews? It makes me feel so good to know that there are people out there who read and enjoy my work!**

 **So how was this chapter? Was it everything you hoped for? Spot any mistakes? Please let me know if you did.**


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: Two chapters and over fifty follows? What is this madness? Thank you all so much for all the wonderful feedback I have received for this story! Your reviews give me life!**

 **Enjoy!**

 **Chapter 2**

When I awoke, I found that the room was completely dark, and at first I forgot where I was. My mind reeled, forcing me back to that dark, enclosed, dirty place that always promised pain. I curled up underneath the blankets, momentarily ignoring the pain that shot through my entire body.

Just moments after I had burrowed beneath the covers, the door burst open. I cowered, trying to control my shivering but I couldn't help it. These people must have finally realized how worthless I really am.

Suddenly, the blankets were gently thrown off me. The florescent lights had been turned on, and I shut my eyes tight.

"Hey Fri, dim the lights in here!"

"It's alright, Peter, you can open your eyes now." The voice was reassuring, but I still didn't trust it.

I cracked my eyes just a little and saw the concerned face of Tony looking down at me.

"That's it, Peter, that's it, you're okay," Tony said gently.

"Why do you keep saying 'Peter'?" I exclaimed. I was sick and tired of words I didn't understand but people kept saying anyway.

Tony bit his lip. "Hey Fri, can you call Bruce?"

"Right away, sir."

"He's on his way, boss."

True to the disembodied voice's word, Bruce entered the room a few moments later, looking slightly disgruntled at being woken in the middle of the night, but alert nonetheless.

"Bruce, we need to explain a few things to Peter here," Tony said.

Bruce nodded. "But why in the middle of the night?"

"Because he's awake now."

Bruce didn't look any happier, but he still sat on the bed in front of me.

"So Peter," he said, and I nearly let out a low hiss. "Yesterday, I was going to ask you some questions, do you remember?" I nodded. "Good. We are going to try that again, okay?" I nodded again. "I want you to answer as honestly as you can, and if you don't know the answer to a question, we'll do our best to fill you in."

I nodded a final time and tried to sit up, failing epically. God, they were right. I was so worthless! I couldn't even sit up on my own.

Tony tried to help me up, but I flinched when he touched me, and he retracted his hand. I eventually _did_ get myself sitting in a more comfortable position, but I felt really bad for keeping Tony and Bruce waiting.

"Can you tell me your first and last name?" Bruce asked.

Kay, a few questions. People had last names? That didn't seem quite right, but what did I know? If people had last names, did that mean there were middle one too? This was too complicated!

Tony could tell I was in distress, and he lightly set a hand on my shoulder, and this time I didn't pull away. It felt good. It kept me grounded.

I finally decided that I had to give him some sort of answer, so I said, "It st-tarts with a P, d-doesn't it?"

Bruce nodded. "Are you sure you don't know it?"

I furrowed my brow, making my head spin momentarily. "Did I learn it during the Fog?"

"The Fog? What's the Fog?" Bruce pressed.

I could feel Tony's grip on my shoulder tighten a little, but for some reason, it felt comforting. "The F-fog is e-everything I can re-emember. It kinda c-clouds my memory."

Bruce looked very unhappy about that, and I felt that I had caused that unhappiness. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't m-mean to make you u-unhappy."

"No, Peter, it's not your fault," Bruce said through gritted teeth. I could see a vein on his neck pulsing green—that probably wasn't a good sign. "I'll be back in a minute." With that he stood and practically ran from the room.

Tony watched him go, but once he was out of sight he turned around and looked at me. "I wanna make something clear to you, Peter."

Oh no. Oh god no. This never boded well. I pulled my knees to my chest, ignoring the pain, for certain that there would be now. He'd finally had enough. He'd seen how truly worthless I was.

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay, I wanna make _two_ things clear to you. One, we are not going to hurt you. We are here to help you and protect you. Never, under any circumstance, would I hurt you. Understood?"

I was stunned. I was so certain that he would have finally reached his limit, but this was better. Maybe these people were different. Maybe I'd known them back in the Fog and now they wanted to help clear the haze. That would be nice. I knew there were things in there that were important. I could see it in the way Tony looked at me.

Tony's hand slid down to my back and he pulled me closer to his body. Not too close, but too close for comfort to me. I flinched and pulled away. I could see that he was disappointed, and I didn't want him to be, but damn, I hated being that close to someone. I was at their mercy when I was so close.

"Second, the reason people keep saying 'Peter' is because that it your name. Your name is Peter Benjamin Parker, okay?"

I was slightly confused. I had a name? That didn't seem right, but maybe it was. I supposed it was something important back in the Fog. It didn't seem all that important anymore, though.

"Got that, Pete?" Tony asked.

I understood, but his words brought another question to mind. "You j-just said that my n-name is 'Peter', b-but you just called m-me 'Pete?"

Tony chuckled. "That's called a nickname, Peter."

That sounded familiar. I guess that was a common thing. At least during the Fog. I wasn't sure if I liked it, however. But it seemed to make Tony happy.

"Is Bruce gonna c-come back?" I asked softly.

Tony sighed. "Probably not. He's got some—how do I put this?— _anger management_ issues. He'll most likely be back in the morning."

"Oh."

I had wanted to answer those questions now. I wasn't tired. I was feeling more awake then I had in a while, and it felt good to be alert. I was also, really, really hungry. Bruce had said something about food, right? I could go for some of that…

As I contemplated how to ask for some, my stomach grumbled. Tony started. "Do you want me get something for you to eat?"

I nodded, sending a stab of pain shooting through my head. I reached up a hand and touched the side of my head, where there had been a large, constantly bleeding gash. Now, the surface was smooth, but it didn't feel like skin. Ohhhh, it was bandaged. That makes sense.

Tony had gotten up and left the room, leaving me alone in the dim lights. I glanced around the room. It looked like your average hospital room. There was an I.V. in my arm that I hadn't noticed, which was connected to bag that was full of what looked suspiciously like blood. I didn't lose that much blood, did I?

On the table beside my bed, there was a lamp, a clipboard and pen, and a book. I reached out and grabbed the book. It was titled _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone_. That name rang a bell…

I opened it to the first page and started reading. The book shook slightly with my hands, making it harder to focus on the words, but it wasn't much of a problem. It felt good to dissolve into someone else's life. And it was a really, really good book.

I was halfway through the second chapter when Tony came back. He was holding a tray with a steaming bowl and a glass of water on it. He set the tray on my lap and looked at the book in my hands.

"You were reading that?" he asked.

"Yeah. It was p-pretty good, too," I replied. Tony looked surprised. Did I do something wrong? Was I not supposed to read the book? "S-sorry."

Tony's expression changed. This time he laughed. "Ah, kid, you've nothing to be sorry for. I was just surprised you remembered how."

Now it was my turn to be surprised. It wasn't hard to read. It was like second nature. I didn't have to think about it.

"Peter, tell me what happened in this book so far," Tony commanded.

Uh, okay, alright. That's a bit of a weird request.

"Well, the first chapter was a-about the Dursleys," I began. I stumbled my way through an explanation of the first one-and-a-half chapters, Tony nodding along as I spoke.

"Well, truth-be-told, kid, I've never read this book, but that sounded about right," Tony said when I had finished.

I frowned for a moment, before quickly pulling out of the expression. One of my hands resting on the side of my head, gently rubbing at the bandaged cut, I marked the page I was in on the book. That seemed right. That was what people did, wasn't it?

"So, Peter, you said something about being hungry?" Tony said.

I looked down at the bowl of steaming soup and the cup of water. I hadn't realized how thirsty I was until I saw the liquid; I tried to grab it, but my hands shook too much. Tony placed his hand on the bottom of the cup and tipped it toward my mouth. Ahhhh, that felt so much better.

"Why don't you try to get some soup down?" Tony suggested.

"Okay," I replied. I attempted to grab the spoon, but my shaking hands weren't cooperating. I ended up splattering hot soup on my lap—

And suddenly I was back in the dark, dirty room. The smell of blood and urine assaulted my nostrils, and the pain in my head and leg spiked. I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood to stop myself from screaming.

My vision was blurry and my insides felt like they were on fire. There was a plastic cup on the floor in front of me and a hazy figure standing a few feet away, near the door. I thought he might be talking, but I couldn't make out his words.

I could feel myself being pulled away from that dark place, but not before the words of the shadow in front of me finally broke through my barrier of pain.

" _And you tell your buddy Tony Stark that this is his fault."_

I couldn't hold in my screams anymore. The pain was so fresh, so raw, and—

It was gone. I was back in the dimly lit room, but I was no longer on the bed. I was tangled up in the sheets, halfway to the floor. Tony was leaning over me, speaking, I think, but the words couldn't reach me. I was so disoriented—how did I end up here? I was just in the dark room… it didn't make sense…

"Peter, can you hear me? Come on, Pete, it's okay, it's alright." Tony's voice seemed so far away. I felt like I was back under that pool, too far away to reach… my ears seemed to be clogged with water, there were people speaking but I couldn't make out their words, just the jumbled sounds all crashing into each other, make it stop, please, make it go away…

I was vaguely aware of being moved back onto the bed, I could feel bile rising to my throat, the sounds continued to pound in my ears, my head, oh my head, it felt like it might split in half…

"Peter, c'mon, c'mon, wake up," a voice coaxed, but it sounded so far away…

My consciousness was slipping away, further and further into the dark, the bliss, the quiet, I wanted to fall into the silence and let it surround me, I never wanted to hear another sound…

The blurry, hazy, figures in the room were becoming less and less distinguished, until all the colors mashed together and became a blob, a blob that kept making noise, just be quiet, please…

…

I groaned. Everything hurt. I was no stranger to pain, but this wasn't the same kind I was used to. This was just an ache. There were no fiery spikes, no gritty stabs. It was just _pain_.

I couldn't open my eyes. My body just wasn't cooperating. I didn't want to go back to the bottom of that pool, I wanted to stay awake. I wanted to clear the Fog—

I registered that I was shaking slightly. My whole body was shivering, but I wasn't cold. On the contrary, actually. I was wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, and my face felt hot. Odd. It wasn't under the blankets.

"Yeah, it's a fever. But not a bad one. He'll be okay."

Someone was talking. Couldn't people just shut up? I wanted silence, complete and utter silence. Everything was just so loud anymore. Like a dog.

I groaned again. The sounds stopped. Ahhhh, bliss. It was so peaceful when no one was making any noise.

But then, the assholes started up again!

"Hey, Peter, can you hear me?" Okay. I'd heard that voice before. His name started with a T, right? What was it…? Tyler… no, that wasn't right. Tom? No, but that was definitely closer. Tony! That was it! "Peter, come on, bud, just give me a sign that you can hear me."

Peter. That was familiar. That was… that was my name, right? Or at least according to Tony. Yeah. Okay. Things are making more sense now.

I let out a low moan. Apparently, that was what Tony wanted, because he started talking more rapidly. I hissed. Sound. I hated sound. Why couldn't sound just go die in a hole? At least back in the dark room it was quiet…

"Tony," a voice whispered. "Talk quieter. I think all the noise bothering him." Thank you! Finally someone understands my problems!

"Sorry, Pete," Tony mumbled. I wanted to respond, I really did, but my mouth didn't seem to want to.

I felt someone touch my hair. I jerked away. Yes! I did something! Alright, it was more reflex then will, but still, I moved.

As I fought to open my eyes, my stomach gave a low grumble. Damn. I certainly was hungry. I never got any of that soup last night, did I? No, of course not! I had to have a…a… mental break down before I got to eat anything! Leave it to me to mess something as menial as eating some soup! The people in the dark room were right, I really am worthless.

"We really gotta get him to wake up. He can't survive like this. Enhanced metabolism really makes things hard, doesn't it?" That voice was familiar, too. Let's see… oh, it was Bruce.

I finally mustered up enough strength to pry my eyelids open, and my eyes were met with blaring lights that forced them back shut.

"Bruce, what did I tell you about the lights?" Tony exclaimed.

"When he isn't awake there's no use in having the lights dimmed," Bruce replied.

"Yeah, well he's awake now," Tony shot back. His voice came closer. "Hey, Pete, you can open your eyes now."

But I already did it once… I didn't really want to do it again. It was so much work.

When my eyes finally decided it's okay to open up, I was met with the sight of Tony leaning over my face. The room was rather dark, but my eyes adjusted quickly. The dark felt good. No florescent lights shining into my eyes or loud sounds screaming in my ears.

"Hey, Peter, how are you feeling?" Tony asked.

 _And tell your buddy Tony Stark that this is his fault._

I shuffled away from him. How many Tonys did I know? There was only one explanation: it was Tony's fault. Everything I'd been through, no matter how much I remembered, was because of Tony. And I'd been starting to trust him, too! But it makes sense. I'm worthless. Of course it makes sense. I don't deserve trust. I don't deserve help.

I shifted underneath the blankets. There was no where I could go; I was trapped. Bruce was sitting in a chair beside the door, and Tony was on the edge of my bed. I couldn't get away from him.

"Peter? Are you alright?" Tony asked. I shifted further away from him, reaching the wall. Why would he care if I was okay? It was all his fault…

 **A/N: I feel like this ending is a little abrupt, but I didn't want to make this run on forever.**

 **Also, I want to clear two things up: One, I'm not really sure of the timeline in this story. As far as I'm concerned, Civil War never happened. I don't know if Infinity War happened either, but maybe this takes place afterword. I don't know.**

 **Two, for the sake of this fic, Aunt May is dead/gone/doesn't exist. I don't really know where she went, but she isn't going to be in this fic. I originally had plans for her to die at some point during the story, but I realized that it was sort of unnecessary.**

 **Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter.**

 **Please continue to review and follow! It gives me life!**


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: I am so surprised by all the support this fic has gotten so far! Almost seventy followers for three chapters? That's crazy! Thank you so much!**

 **Also, just in case anyone is confused as to when this chapter starts, it picks up directly where the last chapter left off.**

 **As always, enjoy!**

 **Chapter 3**

"Peter? What's wrong?" Tony asked. "Peter, come on, talk to me, bud."

Why should I? Why did he care, anyway? It was all his fault…

"Bruce, c'mere."

Bruce walked over from his seat by the door. "What is it?"

Bruce. Did Bruce have something to do with this? They never mentioned him, as far as I could remember, but that wasn't saying much. I decided that until further notice, I wasn't going to trust either of them. I was vulnerable when I trusted someone. After all, I had let Tony get me that soup, and look where that landed me! Flash backs, or teleportation, I still wasn't sure which, and the resurgence of all that pain… god, I was such an idiot. Smart people learned not to trust. But I didn't learn. Just add that to the list of issues.

"Peter?" Bruce said. "Can you hear me?"

I could, but why should I answer? I didn't have any good reason to. Actually, I had no reason to.

I pressed my back against the wall. There was nowhere else to go. The door was closed, Tony and Bruce were blocking my only exit, and there were no windows in the room. All I could do was put enough distance between myself and them to get my point across.

"Peter," Tony said. "what'd we do?"

Oh, there was a lot of things you did. I almost said a couple of them, but I couldn't let them know that I knew. That would destroy this whole thing. The charade would be over and it would be back to the dark room. Back to the constant pain and the hunger.

Hunger.

Now that I thought about, I was starving. But I'd made my decision. I'd rather starve to death than take something Tony or Bruce offered me. I wasn't crazy. According to my delirious mind, this was the right course of action. I was being smart. I was being safe.

Tony and Bruce went out into the hall for a moment. They were obviously talking about something they didn't want me to hear, but I heard just fine.

"What do you think we did?" Tony was asking.

"I'm not sure. It could have something to do with the panic attack he'd had the other night," Bruce replied thoughtfully.

"He seemed so scared of me. And I thought we were making progress!" Tony exclaimed.

"We'll figure this out, Tony. Don't worry. This is just a small setback. We'll get past it. Peter's a strong kid. He'll make it through this."

Huh. Okay, that changes a couple of things. Why are they so worried about me? They did this. It's not their problem. Yes, they caused it, but why should they have to worry about it? I'll be okay healing myself. I seem to do it exceptionally fast.

Tony and Bruce reentered the room and both sat down on my bed.

"Do you want something to eat?" Bruce asked as my stomach gave a mighty grumble. "You seem pretty hungry."

No. I wasn't going to eat anything these people offered. I wasn't stupid. I shook my head. "'s fine."

I was surprised at how slurred my words seemed. Just the other day I talked just fine, didn't I? What had changed?

Maybe Tony did something while I was under… that would make sense. Something that made it worse… I could see him doing that. Unfortunately, that meant sleep was out, too.

"Are you sure?" Tony asked. My damn back-stabbing stomach grumbled some more.

"Yeah."

Tony and Bruce shot each other a furtive look.

"Well, why don't you try to get some more sleep?" Bruce suggested.

"Not tired."

"Peter, you look like hell. You need sleep," Tony said.

"Not tired," I repeated, as firmly as I could. It didn't sound nearly as decisive as I would have liked.

Bruce sighed. "We're gonna have to sedate him."

Sedate? That didn't sound good. It was probably painful, too.

Sure enough, Bruce came back a few moments later with a very dangerous looking needle in tow.

"This should keep him out for a few hours. I made it specially for him, with his metabolism and all," Bruce said, more for Tony's benefit than his own.

"Peter," Tony said. "can you lay back on the pillows?"

I bit my lip. No, I don't think I will. I didn't know what sedating meant, but I gathered it meant something about sleeping. I was completely at Tony's mercy when I slept.

Bruce sighed and leaned over the bed. "Tony, hold his arm." He directed his words at me. "I'm sorry, Peter, but you need sleep."

I struggled against Tony's grip on my arm, but it was futile. In a few moments, Bruce inserted the needle into my arm and the effect was instantaneous. My eyelids began to droop, and I slumped against the wall. No matter how hard I fought, sleep was calling. And I went to it.

…

When I woke up, my mind was cloudy and my eyelids were heavy. Someone had laid me back against the pillows and my legs were twisted around the sheets. The room was dark, and Tony was sitting in a chair by the door. There was a tablet in his lap, but his head was lolled back and he was snoring slightly.

I was having a hard time staying awake. I looked at Tony, whose face was lit up eerily by his tablet. Any energy I had previously was just gone—I felt more exhausted than I had back in the dark room. Except for that one time when they gave me that glass of what looked like water—

And suddenly I didn't want to sleep anymore. The dark room was flashing before my eyes, flitting through my vision, like someone was flipping the lights on and off.

I shut my eyes tightly, but it only made it worse. The only thing I could see was the dark room… the shadowy figures… the plastic cup and the burning… oh, the burning…

I rubbed at my eyes, and eventually the images went away. I slumped, completely drained, and in a matter of time, I was asleep.

 **A/N: Sorry this chapter is so short, but I have big plans for what happens in the next chapter, so this is more of just a filler. I promise I'll have the next chapter out either tomorrow or Wednesday.**


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: And here it is! I've been planning this chapter since I first came up with this idea, so I'm pretty excited to get it to all of you!**

 **Also, in this chapter, the floor that Peter is on is on the bottom floor, but that will most likely change in the future.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **Chapter 4**

The dark room danced before my eyes. The dirty, enclosing, all-encompassing, pain-promising, dark room that haunted me day and night, I couldn't go back, no, I had to stay here, where the Fog could be cleared, but the dark room was so close, it was everywhere, it was haunting, like a ghost that followed me everywhere—

I hissed and rolled over. The pain in my head and leg had dulled to an ache now, but it constantly hurt. Sometimes I would be hit with a rather sharp stab of pain, but it usually just twinged.

Whenever Tony or Bruce tried to talk to me, I pretended to be asleep. If they tried anything, I would know and might be able to stop them.

I knew that they would pick up on it soon enough, but it was working for now.

I cracked my eyes open a bit. The room was dark. No one was speaking, but I could hear Tony's snores. Huh. He hadn't been sleeping much as far I could remember. I opened my eyes the rest of the way and surveyed the room.

Were the walls getting closer? It seemed like the room was moving inward, constricting on me like a snake… I had to get out of here.

I kicked off the sheets and attempted to slide of the bed, but my arms gave way. I felt so weak, but that didn't matter. I had to get out of here. The adrenaline rush I felt next gave me the strength to push myself up. I desperately tried to stand, pushing with all my might against the bed.

With each push, I glanced up at Tony. He was still sleeping soundly.

I managed to get to my feet, only to put weight on my left leg and feel a horrible, fiery pain erupt through my entire leg. I let out an earsplitting scream and crumpled to the floor. Tony, however, did not wake: he gave a mighty snore and twitched.

I worked on pushing myself up from the floor, and eventually managed to stand on my right foot. I hobbled out of the room, leaning on the wall for support. I really wasn't thinking about what the consequences of my actions might be, I just had to get out of here. I needed air, I needed conformation that the rest of the world still existed. There were no windows in my room and I couldn't see through what lay beyond the door.

Until now, that is.

I leaned against the wall, heaving, just outside of my room, the adrenaline coursing through my veins urging me forth. _You've come this far. What's the worst that could happen? Air, you just need air. You'll be fine once you get air._

And I walked along the wall, desperately trying to keep from collapsing, but I was finding that my hands seemed to stick to the wall as if coated in glue. Huh. Nifty.

I continued to move forward until I spotted a door. It was dark outside, so I couldn't see what lay beyond it. But I knew it was outside. None of the other doors I had seen had windows, but this one did.

I limped toward it, going from leaning on the wall to the door in a couple of seconds. I didn't think I could carry my own weight much longer than that.

When I pushed on the door, I half expected some alarm to go off or find that it was locked. But it opened easily and the warm summer air washed over me. I stumbled out the door, ignoring the dull _slam_ that accompanied the closing door. I hobbled through grass, knowing full well that my leg couldn't take much more exercise, but I made it fairly far before I felt my knees buckle. My legs swept out from under me, but I didn't mind. The ticklish grass that itched at my arms grounded me.

The summer air rushed into my nostrils, I breathed in a large whiff. Ahh, that felt so much better.

Although those buildings surrounding me seemed to be closing in, inching ever closer like a pack of lions after their prey. In an effort to shut out the feeling, I laid back on the grass, letting a quiet giggle escape my lips at the feeling of the grass brushing against my neck.

Wow, the stars sure were beautiful. I'd never seen something like it, in all the time I could remember. However, that wasn't saying much, considering how much time I had gauged that went by during the Fog.

I could feel a presence approaching. Something told me it wasn't a threat, so I didn't react until I felt something brush against my arm that definitely wasn't grass—I looked to find a fluffy, but somewhat dirty, white-and-tan cat pawing at my arm. I knew it wasn't dangerous. It just wanted to play.

I put my arm around the animal and pulled it closer to me. It didn't struggle. I think it was just as glad for the contact. I didn't question where the cat came from, at the time. I was just happy for the comfort.

I sighed, letting the pain in my leg and head flow freely. What the point in ignoring it? It was a burning, searing pain, but I let it go. It really didn't matter in the long run. It was just a flesh wound. If it had been life threatening, I would know. And I would heal. I always did, after all.

…

 **A/N: This part switched to Bruce's POV, by the way.**

"Dr. Banner, it appears that Peter Parker has exited the building."

Bruce groaned and rolled over.

"Dr. Banner, Peter Parker had exited the building," F.R.I.D.A.Y repeated, a little louder.

Bruce opened his eyes slightly, reveling in the darkness in his room. What time was it?

"Dr. Banner," F.R.I.D.A.Y said. "Peter Parker has exited the building."

Finally, the third time around, the words fully registered with Bruce, and he was out of bed in a second. He dashed across the room, struggling with Hulk. _Seriously. NOW IS NOT THE TIME._

Bruce booked it to the elevator and punched in the ground floor. Hopefully, he would get there before Peter did any real damage.

"F.R.I.D.A.Y.," Bruce called. "Which door did he go out of?"

"The south door, sir."

 _The south door, the south door._ Bruce replayed the words over and over in his head as he sprinted down the hall. Tony was not going to be happy. He could only imagine how mad he might be—Bruce had told him he needed sleep, so he slipped a sedative into his drink. It had done the trick, but then this happened. This was not Bruce's area of expertise!

He came skidding to a halt in front of the south exit. It led out to the track, where you could usually find a member of the Avengers doing some sort of training.

Except, of course, in the middle of the night.

Bruce could see Peter's silhouette in nearly the middle of the field surrounding the track. He made it farther than Bruce thought he could. There was another shape there, too, but Bruce couldn't make it out, although he thought he saw a dancing tail of some sort.

He approached slowly, not wanted to startle Peter, and giving him plenty of time to react, but Peter didn't. He was staring at the sky, but Bruce knew the Peter could tell he was coming. It was the way he saw the boy stiffen slightly.

As he got closer, he was able to figure out what it was that Peter was holding:

He'd found a cat.

Where in the heck had the cat come from? It wasn't like they just had cats come wandering onto the property regularly.

Bruce cautiously sat down next to Peter, but Peter didn't break his gaze from the sky.

Bruce was mentally examining him, trying to figure out why he came out here and whether or not he was hurt. It was hard to pinpoint the location of any injuries in the darkness, despite the slight amount of light streaming into the field form various rooms in the Compound.

Finally deciding that he should say something, Bruce said,

"Do you like the stars, Peter?"

If Peter was startled by his words, he didn't show it. "Yeah. You couldn't see the stars in Queens."

Queens. The kid said Queens. That was where Tony said he used to live! He was remembering… and Tony was going to be pissed he missed it.

Tentatively, Bruce asked, "You remember Queens?"

Peter paid him a slight nod. "Kinda. It's hazy, but it's there." He absently stroked the furry back of the cat in his lap. Bruce picked up a quiet purring coming from the fluffball.

"Where'd the cat come from?" Bruce asked, stifling a yawn.

"Don't know. She just came."

"She?"

"Yeah, she."

Silence stretched between them, but it wasn't awkward. If anything, it was the opposite. Both men had resolved to his own thoughts, Peter's eye still searching the stars.

Bruce eventually laid back against the grass, too. He wanted Peter to feel comfortable out here, and was prepared to stay as long as he liked. Peter yawned and his stomach grumbled. Turning his head to look at Bruce, Peter asked carefully,

"Can I have something to eat?"

"Of course," Bruce said. "Now?"

Peter nodded, but was looking at the cat in his arms. "Can I- can I keep her?"

Bruce didn't have to the heart to turn the kid down. He didn't know how Tony would feel about it, and he'd have to check the animal for any diseases, but he was okay with it.

He nodded. "Sure. Come on, let's find you something to eat."

It became quickly apparent that Peter had used all his strength getting there, so he leaned in Bruce as they slowly made there way to a kitchen. Bruce definitely wasn't an expert in cooking, but figured that it couldn't be too hard to make a can of soup. And he was right.

The cat was still situated in Peter's lap, and Peter really didn't want to spill hot soup on his new friend, and his hands were shaking more than Bruce remembered that they had, so Bruce had to help him eat the soup. But he did get it down. He managed a couple of spoonfuls before he started to feel sick to his stomach, and Bruce didn't want to rush anything, so he helped him back to bed.

Once Peter was safely back in bed, he made sure that he was asleep before he returned to his own room, telling F.R.I.D.A.Y. to alert him if Peter woke up again that night on the way out.

…

 **A/N: Heading back over to Peter's POV now!**

I had been awake for maybe fifteen minutes when Tony came round. He was slightly groggy, and the first thing he noticed was the cat sitting on my bed. I had decided to call her Sophie, and Bruce had already checked her out for any diseases or injuries, and found she was healthy, despite being a little underfed. And, Bruce had promised to let me help bathe her later that day.

When I had woken up, my leg felt like someone threw a box of lit matches on it and then poured some gasoline on the burns. Bruce had tried to comfort me, and he had given me some pain meds that he said were strong enough to survive my enhanced metabolism (whatever that meant) and it helped a lot. The pain had dulled, but definitely wasn't gone, and I was instantly regretting my nighttime excursions. Although, if I hadn't gone out, I wouldn't have Sophie, so it's sort of a win-lose.

I was in the middle of explaining why I went outside last night when Tony had woken up.

"Wha's with the cat?" he asked, his words slurred by sleep.

Bruce eyed me. I gave him a nod. As long as Bruce was here, Tony wouldn't try to hurt me. I knew that I was safe with Bruce. Bruce was trustworthy. Tony was not.

"Tony, please don't get mad, but last night, Peter had a bit of a _claustrophobic episode_ , for lack of better terminology," Bruce explained.

Tony didn't listen to Bruce. "What?! Something happened when I was—" he gasped "you gave me a sedative, didn't you? How could you? And I missed something important, too! Oh, good going, Bruce!"

Even though I had Bruce to protect me, Tony's yelling still shook me to the core, and I cowered against the wall, hugging Sophie a little bit tighter than I probably should have. The words were pounding inside my head. So loud! Why did Tony always have to be so loud? Bruce threw a glance back at my distressed face before turning back to Tony and saying,

"Tony, please quiet down. You're clearly bothering Peter."

If looks could kill, the glare that Tony sent in Bruce's direction most certainly would have. Damn, he was really, really scary when he was mad.

"Okay. Okay. Tell me what happened," Tony demanded, seeming to be desperately trying to keep his composure.

And so Bruce and I launched into the story, filling in bits for each other, although I told most of it.

"And then we went inside and got something to eat," Bruce finished.

The whole time, Tony had been ominously silent. He was drinking in our words with a sort of angry interest.

At first, I thought he was going to start yelling again. It was exactly what he would do when another similar situating arose, wasn't it? Yell, take some sort of important clothing article away, and talk about how he didn't need someone's death on his conscience.

But instead, he _laughed_.

"I am never drinking anything you give me again, Bruce, even if it will save my life!"

This, this was not at all what I expected. I had expected more screaming, maybe breaking something, not whatever this was. Denial? Cover up? A desperate attempt to get back into my good books?

"Anyways, Bruce, you can clear out now, I'm sure you've got lots of things to do, I want to have a chat with Peter."

What? No! He couldn't make Bruce leave! I refuse to be alone in the same room as a terrifyingly angry Tony!

"No!" I said, more forcefully than I wanted. I had just started trusting Bruce, and now Tony wanted to make him go away? No way! "I want Bruce to stay." My voice had turned sheepish, as I realized how dumb this really was. I was such a wuss. Of course everyone thinks I'm worthless…

Tony sighed. "Alright, Bruce can stay." Yes! That was easier than I thought it would be. Tony transferred from the chair by the door to the foot of my bed.

"So, Peter," Tony began. "I have a few questions I want to ask you. Okay?" Why was he asking my assent for? I'm sure he'd ask them regardless…

Either way, I gave a nod in the affirmative.

"Alright, good. My first question is: do you know what my last name is?"

Last name… last name… nope. I wasn't even sure Tony had a last name, and now he wanted me to know it? That's ridiculous! Although I do believe I knew him during the Fog, so I probably knew it back then, but now? Absolutely not!

"I… I don't know, sir." Why did I call him 'sir'? I'm so dumb! Just look at worthless little Peter, calling random, possible-torturers 'sir'!

Tony chuckled good-naturedly. "You don't have to call me 'sir', kid."

"What… what is your last name, though?"

"Stark. Anthony Edward Stark, at your service," Tony replied. Anthony… Tony… nicknames, right, nicknames.

I nodded, filing it away. "What's the n-next question?"

"What's the cat's name?"

Tony laughed, Bruce chuckled a bit, and even I managed to give him a snicker. It felt good to laugh. I hadn't in a long time, but I liked it.

"Sophie. Her name is Sophie."

Tony asked a few more questions, but he eventually agreed to go and get me some more food, so Bruce and I were alone once more.

"Are you afraid of Tony, Peter?" Bruce asked.

The question surprised me. I hadn't expected that.

I nodded half-heartedly.

"Why?"

I mumbled something, but Bruce asked me to repeat it. A little louder, I said, "He's loud."

"That's it?"

Barely, I shook my head.

"What else?"

"It's… it's all his fault."

Bruce looked shocked at that answer, but urged me to go on.

"What's all his fault, Peter?"

"Everything… the Fog, the pain, it's all his fault." Learning Tony's last name had confirmed my suspicions.

 _And tell your buddy Tony Stark that this is his fault._

"Why do you say that?"

"Because… because that's what they said."

"Who said?"

"The people in the dark room, the ones that hurt me."

"What did they say?"

I cleared my throat. I didn't want to tell Bruce. This felt like I was spilling all my deepest, darkest secrets with him. Really, I was. How many secrets did I have to keep besides this one?

"'And tell your buddy Tony Stark that this is his fault.'" My voice faltered slightly as I reached the end, my sentence being punctuated by a nervous hiccup.

Bruce blinked. I couldn't tell what was going on in his head, but I could see a couple of his veins pulsing green on his neck—that couldn't be good.

Luckily, at this moment, Tony returned with food. Bruce went and sat in the chair by the door, taking deep, slow breaths. Tony eyed him for a second before helping me eat the soup. Normally, I wouldn't trust something Tony gave me, but Bruce is here. He wouldn't let Tony hurt me.

 **A/N: How was this chapter? Everything you hoped and dreamed? I've been planning this chapter for a while, and I'm really excited to have finished it. Peter's recovering!**

 **I also want to thank you guys for your continued support. I know I say this in every chapter, but your reviews really do motivate me to get chapters out faster. So thank you so, so much!**

 **-Professor R.J Lupin1**


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: Again, thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews!**

 **Warning: There is a lot of vomit mentioned in this chapter, so I wouldn't recommend reading it while eating or something.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **Chapter 5**

When I woke up, I felt hot. My face was burning up, but the rest of my body was cold. I was shivering beneath my blankets, but damn, my face literally felt like someone had lit it on fire.

"It's a bad fever. I can't figure out how it started, but I'd assume it has something to do with his nighttime wanderings," Bruce said. His voice was wavering, like he was speaking above water and I was below—no. Not the pool. I'm not going back under the pool. That stupid pool needs to be… it needs to be drained! Yeah, someone needs to drain it. No matter what, I will not return to the bottom of the pool.

Bruce would help me drain the pool. I know he would.

I let a low moan escape my lips. I felt so sick: my stomach was churning uncomfortably and my head throbbed. Couple that with the cold and the hot, and I felt positively horrible.

"He did too much all at once. I meant for us to take slowly. Get him up and walking across the room, not all the way to the track. But don't worry about it, Tony, he'll be okay." Okay. That was Bruce again. His voice sounded a little bit clearer than it had before.

I groaned again and rolled over. I heard footsteps echoing closer to me, and the bed sagged as someone sat down on the mattress.

"Hey, Peter," Tony said quietly. His voice was definitely directed at me, unlike what Bruce had said.

I cracked my eyes open, blinking at the sudden lights,

"Hey, Peter, how do you feel?" Tony asked.

I moaned in response.

I felt someone brush a lock of sweaty hair off my forehead. I couldn't really tell who did it, but the gesture was comforting nonetheless. I figured it was Tony, but did it really matter? It felt good.

I rolled over onto my left side, but immediately regretted my decision. My leg erupted into fiery pain. I gritted my teeth and hissed.

"What is it, Pete?" Tony asked.

"Leg," I ground out.

"Don't you have something you give him? For the pain?" Tony asked Bruce.

"I already gave him the only thing I had," Bruce replied. "Anything else wouldn't do him any good."

The mattress sagged once again as Bruce sat down. "How're you doing, Peter?"

"Sick…" I moaned.

"I know, Peter, we're working on it," Bruce promised.

Suddenly I felt the need to throw up. I leaned over the side of the bed and retched. I felt bad for barfing on the floor, but hadn't I done that a lot back in the dark room? Sophie nuzzled up against my back. The feeling was comforting as I threw up for almost a minute. Someone patted my shoulder, and I had the distinct feeling that it was Tony, but I didn't mind.

When I was done, I slumped against the pillows, breathing heavily, trying to get the foul taste out of my mouth. Tony handed me a glass of water—

The burning. The burning that had seemingly engulfed my body back in the dark room. It came from the plastic cup I'd seen on the floor in front of me, whatever liquid had been in it. Had I thought it was water? That made sense, didn't it?

I pushed the water away, despite the thirst that bit at my throat at even the sight of liquid. I wasn't taking anything that came from Tony, especially in light of my recent discoveries. He hadn't given me a reason to trust him, and so I didn't. I'm not naïve.

Tony and Bruce eyed each other. I suppose they were confused my reaction, or something. Were they not used to my mood-swings?

"Peter," Bruce said. "Are you feeling okay?"

I frowned, not looking at either of them. Instead, I focused on the sheets laying across my lap. I _wasn't_ , in fact, feeling okay, at all, and I _wanted_ to answer, I really did, but it would only lead to more questions that I _didn't_ want to answer, right? At least, that's how it usually ended.

"Peter? Are you with us?" Tony asked concernedly.

I didn't answer. Suddenly, the cotton bedsheets were the most interesting thing in the world. They were so soft and springy. Nicest sheets I've ever felt.

Tony reached out a tentative hand a placed it on my shoulder. I jerked away, maybe a little more harshly than I wanted to, but it was a reflex. Touch meant pain. Pain was bad.

I fiddled with the sheets. I knew that I was making them unhappy, but at that moment, I didn't really care. I preferred to be happy myself. Who cares is someone else is happy? It's not my problem.

"Peter, c'mon, bud, say something." For a moment, I considered being snarky and saying 'something' in return, but I knew that that wasn't going to end well. I remembered back when I first arrived in the dark room, I would give the men snide comebacks and quips. That only made it worse, and I still wasn't convinced I had really left that dark place.

Another wave of nausea crashed over me, and I slumped against the pillows, feeling vomit rise to my throat.

"Peter? What is it?" Tony asked worriedly.

Momentarily forgetting my queries, I replied, "Sick…" as I fought to keep the vomit from exiting my mouth. I absently stroked Sophie's fluffy coat. The bile tasted disgusting, but I wouldn't throw up again. I simply refused.

I almost made it to the side of the bed before the bile escaped my mouth, splattering onto the sheets and Tony and Bruce. I heard Sophie hiss discontentedly behind me.

Tony left to change his shirt and grab new sheets for my bed, and Bruce helped me into the bathroom. My legs felt like they had been replaced with Jell-O that had been left in the sun for a couple of days, and the moment I tried to stand up, I immediately threw up once more.

I stammered my apologies, but Bruce waved them away. "Don't worry about it, Peter, we'll get someone to clean it up and it won't be a problem. It's not your fault that you're sick." But somehow, I didn't believe him.

I leaned heavily into his side, my feet stumbling around like a fish out of water and tripping over thin air. God, I was so worthless. I couldn't even walk to the bathroom without falling and throwing up!

Halfway across the room, my legs slid out from under me, unable to continue holding my weight. I collapsed to the cold tile, but Bruce managed to catch me before I made full contact with the ground. However, I wouldn't have minded laying down on the tile and falling asleep. My bed was too warm.

Tony had returned with a different shirt, new sheets, and clean pajamas for me. I didn't question why he had my clothes, but did it really matter? I was too sick to care.

While Tony changed the sheets, Bruce and I finally made it to the bathroom. Bruce disappeared for a moment and came back with the change of pajamas.

"Peter," he said. "how do you feel about trying to take a shower?"

A shower? I couldn't take a shower—that was asking way too much of me. I could hardly walk across a room, let alone stay upright long enough to shower!

"All your bandages are waterproof, though I doubt we need to worry about that. All the cuts except the one on your head have almost completely healed. My biggest worry is your leg, however," Bruce was saying, but I wasn't listening. I was too busy trying to work myself up to taking a shower.

Bruce had stopped talking at some point, apparently aware that I wasn't listening, and had turned the shower on. I could hear the water smacking against the tile, but I wasn't really registering it. The sound seemed sort of far away, like there was a wall between me and the noise.

Bruce had taken notice of my spacing out and placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I didn't flinch away; I trusted Bruce.

Okay. I can do this. Just in, and out. No more. I can do this. If I made it all the way to the track and back, I can easily take a shower. But then again, I was delirious and running on pure adrenaline when that happened, so these were much, much different circumstances.

Bruce had to help me undress, which was admittedly embarrassing, but it wasn't that bad. I suppose I just didn't care. Honestly, I was just too sick to care.

By this time, I'd been standing for way too long, and was starting to feel slightly lightheaded, but I figured I could make it through a single little shower before getting back to bed. I had to prove I wasn't worthless.

The warm water felt good on my back as I stepped into the shower. I gripped onto the shelf for support, seeing as the ground was slippery and my legs were already weak as is.

I shakily washed my hair like Bruce had said, but it was rather difficult doing everything one handed. Couple that with the quivering of my entire body, and it was truly a sucky experience. But I did it. I didn't collapse, I didn't slip, and I most certainly didn't have a panic attack half way through. Really. I didn't. I promise.

But, all in all, it was a pretty successful shower, and it felt good to get clean. I knew that I had been cleaned up when I showed up here, wherever that was, but I couldn't get rid of that gritty feeling that I constantly experienced in the dark room. And now, that feeling was gone.

I switched off the water and stepped out of the shower. There was a towel hanging on a rack on the wall, which I grabbed and draped across my shoulders. The lightheaded-ness had gotten worse since I entered the shower, and I leaned against the counter, sopping wet and uncomfortably sick. Any weight I could get off my feet was good. Although I was fairly certain I didn't weigh much.

I shivered in the open air and wrapped my towel closer to my body. I dried myself off and did my best to put on the pajamas that Bruce had left. I may have broken a world record for longest time taken to put on clothes. And it probably didn't help that I dissolved into a coughing fit with my pants halfway up my legs…

Once I had _finally_ gotten dressed, I surveyed myself in the mirror. I hadn't seen my own face in quite a while. I could hardly even remember what I looked like.

My hair was shaggy, having not been cut in almost four months, and was incredibly messy. It was also soaking wet, but at least I could explain that.

A white (and partially red) bandage was wrapped around my head, possibly a little bit too tight for comfort. I brushed a hand across the surface, feeling for the cut, until my hand in contact with something else. It seemed almost like— _words_.

I turned my head and examined it in the mirror. There was definitely something there. I ran my hand across it again, feeling the way the word curved and twisted, turning into letters, forming a word, cut straight into my skin. I leaned closer to the mirror, trying to make out the word, cut so intricately into my head, red and inflamed, but no bandage covered it.

I analyzed the small word, desperately trying to make it out. I edged ever closer to the mirror, and the word became clear:

 _Stark_.

 **A/N: Ooh, things are heating up! We may finally find out who did this to Peter and why…**


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: I've got a summer cold… those are the worst.**

 **WARNING: There is mention and description of torture in this chapter, so if that bothers you, I would not recommend reading this chapter.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **Chapter 6**

I stared at the word for a good few minutes. Maybe if I looked at it enough, it would go away. Just sink back into my head and disappear.

It wasn't bleeding, and didn't look like it ever had. The letters were red and inflamed, but there was no sign of blood. That told me is wasn't very deep. It was just above my ear,

I traced the word, slowly, cautiously, as if it might burst open and explode if I touched it too hard. I felt tainted. The word bore down on me, an enormous weight resting on my shoulders that I desperately wanted to lift. I brushed my hand past the torn up skin, tentatively grazing the cuts. I wanted it gone. But deep down, I knew that it would never leave. I would forever have a mark; a mark of what Tony did to me.

The door behind me creaked open, and I slammed my hand to my side. The quick movement sent a stab a pain emanating through my body.

"Peter," Tony said. I turned around slowly to face him. "are you alright in here?"

I turned back to the mirror. My face was exceptionally pale, even for being sick, and my wet hair was sticking to my forehead with a mixture of sweat and water. The word on the side of my head seemed to stick out like a sore thumb.

"Peter? You alright?" Tony came to stand beside me in the mirror. "What's wrong?"

I slowly lifted my hand to the side of my head.

"What? The bandage?"

I shook my head, still holding my hand over the word.

"What is it then?" Tony asked concernedly. I knew his worry was fake; this was all his fault, anyway. He obviously knew what was wrong. He was just feigning concern. He didn't know that I knew.

Tony was looking directly at my hand, which was lightly tracing the letters carved into my skin. He gently grabbed my wrist and tried to move my hand. I yanked my arm away from his grip, consequently removing my cover.

He examined the word and sighed. "I can't believe the shit those people did to you."

What did that mean? Didn't Tony want them to do that? I thought he told them to, that this was what he wanted. Or… was it an accident? Had I been blaming Tony for nothing? But—the word, the man, everything. It didn't make sense.

My head was pounding. A fiery throb had blossomed in side my mess of a brain, and the lightheaded-ness had returned with a vengeance. I could feel my legs shaking, threatening to buckle, and my vision was fuzzy at the edges.

"Peter?" Tony's words echoed inside my head, rattling around and making my headache even worse. I slammed my hands over my ears, forcing my eyes tightly, trying to shut out the rest of the world and make sense of my life. Everything was just _so_ loud. Why couldn't people just shut up? "Peter!"

I was dimly aware of my legs collapsing, sliding out from underneath me, but I didn't hit the floor. Tony caught me and pulled my limp form closer to him. I think he said something, but I was so far beyond him that I couldn't hear a sound, except, of course, for the dull pounding that resounded through my ears. He may have called for someone, but the sounds just jumbled together, creating a disgusting, garbled noise that made me want to puke.

I vaguely remembered being moved somewhere, but I didn't really care where I was put. I felt like I had become apathetic; was I dead? It felt a lot like it, but if I were dead, would I still be able to feel? I wish I were dead… maybe if I were dead, I would finally get the silence I yearned for.

At some point, darkness fully descended upon me in a single, earth-shattering wave. I felt like it drowned me, dragging me back to the bottom of the pool… but I didn't want to… I fought against the pull… but it beat me…

…

I moaned and rolled over. I heard a hiss and felt something moving over my legs. Sophie. Right. She curled up closer to my head, her furry tail coming to rest on my forehead. That felt good.

I didn't feel nearly as hot anymore, but my head was spinning wildly. I groaned again, moving my hand onto Sophie's warm back. Ahh. I liked that.

I shifted beneath the covers, already hearing the call of sleep once more, but I didn't want to go back. I wanted to stay above. For one, I wanted food. As I lay there, I could feel the hunger eating at my stomach. And two, I wanted to finally get to give Sophie her bath. Bruce had promised I'd get to help, but then I got sick.

Against my wishes, sleep crashed over me, and I oblivious to the world once more.

…

 _"Let's see how long it takes Spidey to break today, shall we?"_

 _I took a step back, almost hitting the wall. I wouldn't break. Not today. I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of knowing that they could break me._

 _The man who had spoken, whom I liked to call Mustache, for his big, brown mustache that shook when he cackled, stepped toward me, holding a knife menacingly._

 _"We're gonna see how many cuts it takes for you to scream, sound good?" That_ did not _sound good, but what choice did I have? I knew fighting back wasn't going to do me any favors._

 _Mustache seized my left arm, the same arm he'd dislocated a couple of days ago, and a wave of fiery pain shot up through the entire appendage. I bit my lip, desperately trying not to scream, and Mustache smiled at my pain. God, if I ever get out of here, I am going to personally murder this man._

 _He started at my wrist, cutting deep into the skin, looking up at me for a moment after every cut._

 _One._

 _Two._

 _Three._

 _Four._

 _Blood was trickling to the floor, and my arm felt like it was on fire._

 _Five._

 _Six._

 _Seven._

 _Eight._

 _Mustache paused. "Now, we'll make this easy. I'll stop, if you answer my questions without complaint. Let's begin."_

 _Nine._

 _"What's your name?"_

 _I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood._

 _Ten._

 _Eleven._

 _"C'mon, Spidey, this isn't hard."_

 _My arm was now completely bathed in blood, and it was starting to feel numb._

 _Twelve._

 _Thirteen._

 _"What. Is. Your. Name?"_

 _I gritted my teeth, but didn't say a word._

 _Fourteen._

 _Fifteen._

 _Sixteen._

 _"Tell me your name!" Mustache yelled, right in my ear. The words rattled around my head, seeming so much louder than they really were._

 _Tears pricked at my eyes, I could only hold in my screams for so long—the pain was indescribable._

 _Seventeen._

 _Eighteen._

 _"What is your name?" Mustache shouted._

 _I… I couldn't take it anymore. "P-p-peter—" I moaned._

 _"You gotta have a last name, too."_

 _"P-p-parker…"_

 _"Peter Parker, huh? Bullshit." Mustache slammed a fist into my cheek, breaking my nose and sending me flailing to the ground._

 _"I-I-I'm n-n-not l-lyin'—"_

 _"Yeah. Like I believe that." He slammed his fist into my other cheek, opening a bleeding cut on my face that poured blood onto my chest, soaking through the remains of the Spider-Man suit and spreading through the shirt beneath._

 _Nineteen._

 _Twenty._

 _Twenty-one._

 _"You lie to me again, Spidey, and you won't like the result." With that, Mustache dropped my arm and stormed from the room._

 _I fell to the ground, heaving, sobbing, and I finally let out my agonized screams._

I woke with a start, screaming, wide-eyed and unable to remember where I was. What was this place? Where had the dark room gone? I was just there—wasn't I?

Tony came rushing toward me and grasped my shoulders. I was shaking, violently, from head to toe, and Tony's grip did nothing to change that.

"Peter, come on, Peter, calm down, you're okay, you're safe, no one's going to hurt you, just calm down," Tony said.

I was hyperventilating. I felt like I could never get enough air into my lungs, no matter how long I breathed. The world was spinning before my eyes, churning fiercely and making me want to hurl. I leaned into Tony's grip, grateful for the touch to keep me grounded. God, I wanted it to end. I wanted to just go back to sleep and never come back.

"Hey, Peter, focus on me, okay?" Tony asked. "Look me in the eyes, Peter."

I tried to, I really did, but every time his eyes came into focus the room started spinning again. I held my face in my hands, desperately trying to make it all go away. Tony's grip on my shoulders tightened, but I didn't flinch or pull away. I needed the touch.

"Peter, Peter, look at me," Tony pleaded. "Look at my eyes, Peter, and nothing else, just my eyes."

I shakily lifted my head and met his eyes. There was deep concern in those eyes. I knew that that was something he couldn't fake. His worry was real; but it was still his fault. I knew, deep down, that none of it was intentional. That Tony really, actually cared about me and didn't want any of that to happen, but it still did. There was no changing that fact.

I broke eye contact and puked on the ground, emptying the contents of my stomach onto the floor, and Tony's hand never left my shoulder. The touch was comforting, so comforting, and I never wanted it to leave. But of course it did, all too soon.

"Peter," Tony said, a few minutes after I had stopped throwing up. "can you tell me about your dream?"

"I-it wasn't a d-d-dream," I replied shakily. "it was a m-memory."

"A memory, you say? What was it about?" Tony asked gently.

"B-back in the d-d-dark r-roo-m," I explained unsteadily. "T-t-there was a m-man with a m-mustache who t-tortured m-me."

Tony sighed and shook his head. "I'm so sorry, Pete. I never wanted any of this to happen to you."

I knew that. I was smart enough to figure that out.

"H-h-he c-cut up my a-arm," I stammered, although Tony did not ask for me to elaborate. Maybe it would feel better once someone knew. "H-he told m-me 'h-how long is it g-going to take for S-spidey to b-b-break?'"

Tony pulled me closer to him. His hands closed around my back and he hugged me. It felt so good. It felt so good to be hugged. I leaned into the embrace, wishing I could stay in Tony's arms forever.

"I-I-I w-wanted to s-s-scream so m-much," I said, my voice shaking with a vengeance. Tears were silently sliding my cheeks, and I could tell Tony was unsure of what to do or how to answer that.

Tony simply tightened his hold around my back. God, it felt so good.

My tears leaked onto Tony's shirt, but he didn't move. He just kept holding me like I was three years old, but I didn't mind.

For once, it felt good to be loved.

 **A/N: I know it got a little sappy at the end, but I needed something to get Tony and Peter's relationship rolling again.**

 **We'll be finding out who did this and why very soon…**


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N: I am so sorry that this chapter is so late! I've been having a bad case of writer's block recently, but I think its past now.**

 **WARNING: Unfortunately for Peter, this chapter contains more torture…**

 **Enjoy!**

 **Chapter 7**

 _I heard a grunt and something hit me, hard. I forced my tired eyes open and lifted my head, despite how every muscle in my body screamed in protest. I knew that Mustache didn't like to be kept waiting._

 _Today, Mustache had a friend. I came to call him Scarface, 'cause his face was covered in more scars than I thought was possible._

 _The first thing Scarface did was grab my dislocated arm and throw me into the opposite wall. My shoulder slammed into the cold stone, and I scrunched up my face in pain._

 _Mustache loomed over me and sneered in my face. His face was swimming before my eyes. The edges of my vision were red, blurring into Mustache's face._

 _"You see, Spidey? You answer my questions and these things won't keep happening," Mustache leered. "Are you ready to try again?"_

 _I vaguely remember shaking my head._

 _Mustache nodded to Scarface, who seized my arm and threw me across the room again. I lay, sprawled on the dirty, bloody floor, sliding in and out of consciousness, waiting for Mustache and Scarface to strike again._

 _And, of course, they did._

 _Mustache retrieved a knife from his pocket and grasped my head. He pulled my face so close to his that I could smell his rancid breath. He raised the knife to my eye and said,_

 _"You don't need these, do you?"_

 _I whimpered._

 _"Ready to answer my questions now, Spidey?" Mustache sneered. "Good. What is your name?"_

 _I desperately fought against his grip, but his hand was strong._

 _Mustache dug the knife into the skin beside my eye. I turned my head forcefully, and the knife cut along to my ear. Blood immediately poured from the gash, running down my cheek and neck._

 _"P-p-p-peter P-p-parker-r—" I ground out._

 _"Still going on with that lie, are we?" Mustache said cruelly. "Well, you know what happens when you lie."_

 _So Mustache lifted the knife and dragged it down my already-mangled left leg. I tried desperately to not scream, knowing what happens when I scream. My leg was spasming, making the cut a bizarre zig-zag pattern that ravaged from my hip to my ankle, which was twisted at an odd angle. My entire pant leg was completely torn to shreds, as was the Spider-Man suit. Tears were pouring down my cheeks, mixing with my blood and making a red, watery substance that soaked through my shirt collar._

 _"You're a worthless, lying, little shit, Spidey," Mustache yelled. He threw me against the wall, and my head banged against the stone, and the world faded to black—_

 _But Mustache had poured a bucket of cold water on my head, forcing me to remain in the world of the living._

 _"Oh, no, Spidey, we're not done yet," he cooed._

 _He grabbed my right hand and waved it in my face. "See this, Spidey? This hand is currently intact, and it will stay that way as long as you answer my questions and_ don't lie to me _."_

 _And Mustache proceeded to squeeze my pinky finger, much tighter than necessary and said,_

 _"I will ask you one more time. What. Is. Your. Name? And no more of this 'Peter Parker' shit."_

 _"T-t-t-that i-i-is my-y n-n-name," I stammered shakily. My voice wavered like an earthquake._

 _Mustache didn't reply. Instead, he bent my pinky finger backward with a sickening crunch and he went to the next finger—_

It took me a moment to realize that the scream I heard was my own. I curled myself into a ball, tangled in my sheets. I felt Sophie's fluffy tail brush against my leg. I was trembling violently, so hard that I scared Sophie away.

I stopped screaming and was left shaking in silence, trying to calm myself down. Deep breaths, deep breaths. I felt like no matter how long I breathed, I could never get enough air into my lungs. Hyperventilating. I'm hyperventilating.

Not enough air. Never enough air. I need more air…

No. Too much air. Too much… too much air. Less air. I need less air.

I looked around wildly, desperately searching for—something. There was nothing to look for… but still, my eyes disorientedly scoured the room.

My eyes landed on a slab of—something. I wracked my brain for the name of it. Book. It was a book. Books were good. I feverishly seized the book and opened it a page that was marked—had I done that? Yeah, yeah, I think I had. That seemed right. Yeah. I remember that.

I stared down at the page, willing it to focus, for the words to stop spinning and churning. Words. Focus. Words. Focus…

It was taking all my will power to concentrate on the book and get my shaking body under control.

The words were focusing a little bit better, now, but the letters didn't seem to register in my panicked state.

Words. Focus. Words. Focus. Focus, Peter, focus. Focus. Focus on the damn words! This isn't hard…

At least, it wasn't before.

It wasn't hard back in… back in Queens. It wasn't a problem before those men shot me out of the sky—why was I in the sky in the first place?—and dragged me into that van. It wasn't a problem before Mustache and Scarface practically threw my body in a blender. It wasn't a problem before I lost everything to the Fog.

Focus… focus.

 _"But the glass," he kept saying. "Where did the glass go?"_ I read. Okay. It probably made more sense in context. Context. Yeah. I needed context.

Halfway through re-reading the previous page, the door creaked open and Tony entered. I instantly tensed, not because his arrival surprised me, I had sensed him coming before he even exited the elevator, but because I still didn't fully trust him. As far as I knew, I wasn't a trusting person, although I may have been back in Queens. But I'm not in Queens now. I'm—wherever.

"Hey, Peter, you doing alright?"

I nodded without looking up from the book. Why did Tony always interrupt me when I was trying to read a book?

"Good book?"

I nodded again and turned the page. I really didn't feel like talking about it. Or anything, for that matter. Silence was good by me.

Tony sat down on my bed and read the title of my book. "' _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone'_ , huh? Yeah, I never read Harry Potter."

Oh, come on, Tony, can't you tell where you're not wanted?

I shifted beneath my blankets and instantly regretted it: my left leg bumped against the right and exploded into fiery pain. I dropped the book in shock, feeling tears prick at my eyes. But no way in hell was I going to cry. I learned not to cry—I learned to hold it in until they left. I could sob my heart out as long as there weren't there to see it, and this place was no different.

Blinded by the sudden and excruciating pain, I barely noticed when Tony placed a reassuring hand on my back. I knew he was saying something, probably trying to figure out what was wrong, but his words weren't important to me. For a few, terrible, painful moments, the most important thing in the universe was making the pain go away.

"Hey, Peter, it's okay. It'll go away in a moment." True to Tony's word, the pain began to fade, and my remaining energy along with it.

"Was it your leg?" Tony asked.

I nodded stiffly. The pain was not yet gone.

He awkwardly patted my shoulder and drew me a bit closer to him. And for once, I didn't pull away. I needed positive physical contact, that reminded me I wasn't quite as worthless as I once thought.

…

I awoke to the sound of voices and said voices were not directed at me, although I could tell they were talking about me. Sophie crawled into my lap and seemed to listen, too.

"I just don't understand it," Bruce was saying. "He should he healing. Much faster than he is, at any rate."

"It is weird, I'll give you that. Some of his injuries—the earlier ones, I presume—have healed completely. I'm sure they healed quickly," Tony replied.

"That's great and all, Tony, but it doesn't explain why he isn't healing now," Bruce said exasperatedly.

"I know, Brucie, and we're working on it," Tony responded.

"One: I thought I told you to stop calling me 'Brucie', and two: what 'we're working on it' entail?"

Tony was silent for a moment, as if contemplating his words. "It means I'm looking into it. But I've got bigger problems, like who the hell did this to him in the first place!"

Both men fell silent.

"Have you thought of some sort of drug that stops the healing factor?" Tony offered quietly.

"Well, yes, but there's no trace of anything in his bloodstream."

"Then, check again! There are only so many solutions we can try, Brucie!"

I heard Bruce's annoyed sigh.

Ugh. This is taking way too long.

I let out a low moan. That sure got their attention, for Tony rushed in a moment later followed by Bruce not far behind.

"Hey, Peter, how ya doing?" Tony asked casually.

I shrugged slightly. "Better."

Tony looked relieved. "How's the leg?"

I shrugged again. "Hurting."

"Is it healing, too?"

"I guess so."

I could tell that Tony wasn't exactly satisfied with this answer, but honestly I couldn't care less right now. I was hungry and still kind of tired despite being asleep for like six hours. That's enough sleep for people to function on, right?

"You want something it eat?"

Read my mind.

I nodded quickly, desperate for food. When was the last time I ate? It was… it was two days ago, right? That would probably explain how dizzy I am right now and how I kind of feel like throwing up… not that I'd have anything to barf.

"So, Peter, today, we were thinking you could come and eat in the kitchen. We're having a bit of team breakfast, and thought you might like to join us," Tony proposed.

Hmm. Yeah, that sounded alright. As long as it ended in food. "O-okay."

Tony flashed a grin and clapped his hands. I flinched at the loud noise and recoiled.

Bruce and Tony helped me get out of bed and made sure not to touch my leg. I had been hot beneath the covers, but as soon as they were off I started shivering.

"You okay, Pete?" Tony asked in response to my shuddering.

"Y-yeah. J-just cold."

As soon as I was upright, the dizzy returned with a vengeance. The room tipped dangerously and I went careening sideways into Tony's chest. Tony ruffled my hair reassuringly as I tried to get the dizzy to go away.

I was vaguely aware of Tony asking Bruce when the last time I ate was and put an arm around my back. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been hugged. I remembered warm, assuring hugs and comforting words whispered in my ear, but whoever hugged me was evading my grasp.

Tony 'helped' me walk a.k.a. carried me to the kitchen, where a large, loud group of people already were assembled. I didn't recognize any by name, but couldn't help but feel I'd seen them somewhere before.

Tony helped me into a seat beside him and I was eternally grateful that the chairs had arms. At least that made it harder to slide sideways onto the lap of whoever was sitting beside me.

When Tony and I entered the room, everyone had kind of stopped talking and stared at me. I realized I must not look very good after being in bed for who-knows-how-long and taking a shower like once in the past five months.

Once Tony and I had assumed our seats, Tony said,

"Everyone, this is Peter. I know you've all met him before, but I'm sure he doesn't remember that, so meet him again."

I didn't like big groups of people. _Especially_ these people. They were loud and rowdy and made me nervous. It didn't help that I knew I knew them but couldn't figure out how.

The blonde man on my other side chuckled and said,

"Smooth, Tony, real smooth." He then directed himself at me. "Hi, Peter, I'm Captain Steve Rogers. Call me Steve." He extended a hand, which I nervously shook after taking a second to figure out what he wanted me to do with it. I filed away the name for later, just to make sure it didn't disappear.

Tony put a couple a floppy, vaguely circle shaped slabs on my plate. I stared at them for a second, unsure of what to make of them. Beside me, Tony laughed a bit. "It's called a pancake, Peter. It's good. Try it." He then proceeded to lather it in butter and pour a syrup on it. I tentatively took a bite of this 'pancake' and felt a rush of memories bombard me.

Burnt, black pancakes and a lot of smoke, but eating them nonetheless. A lot of laughing seemed to associated with this memory, too, and I knew I liked it.

Perfect, rich, creamy pancakes drowned in syrup that Aunt May swore she made—wait. Aunt May…?

For a moment, the memories continue to come at light speed. They stop suddenly when I snap back to reality, seeing the faces of Tony, Steve, Bruce, and all the other people who were previously sitting around the table. I bolted upright, scaring just about everyone around me.

"Pancakes!" I spluttered wildly.

Everyone stared at me, confused.

"Peter, calm down," Tony ordered. Calm down. Yeah. I can calm down. "Can you tell us what happened?"

"Pancakes," I replied. "Memories… memories about pancakes."

Tony frowned. Was it—was it something I said?

"What—what happened?" I asked tentatively.

"You kind of fainted," Tony explained.

I noticed behind Tony, Steve was standing beside a man with long, dark brown hair and a metal arm. Did people usually have metal arms? Was that a common thing?

The man with the metal arm had this look of—recognition? Fear?—in his eyes that made me uneasy. The way he looked at me made me think he understood… but that was impossible. No one understood. That was the problem with the Fog. No one understood it. No one ever would.

But that look… it certainly put me on edge.

A couple of the other people had returned to the table but continued to stare at me. I didn't like being the center of attention… that was another thing that made me uneasy. All those pairs of eyes seemingly staring into my soul…

Tony helped me back to the table and every once in a while would glance at me like he thought I might spontaneously combust if he looked away for too long. But he wasn't the only one who kept looking at me: the man with the metal arm stared at me from across the table, and it did nothing to ease my worries.

The pancakes were quite good, Tony was right about that. I did enjoy them once I wasn't being drowned in memories every time I took a bite. I must have really liked them to have so many memories stored up surrounding them.

As Tony helped me back to my room, I thought of the name I'd remembered. _Aunt May_. I was sure that was name. There wasn't any other explanation my mind could come up with.

"Hey, uh, T-tony," I said tentatively.

"What's up?" Tony replied, his eyes searching me up and down.

"Who—who's Aunt May?"

Tony's eyes dropped. "She's… she's dead, Peter. Has been for about two years now."

"Oh."

The silence that stretched between us was so tense one could cut a hole in it.

She's dead. She's dead and I don't even know who she is. Was her death my fault? It could have been.

Tony and I had arrived back at my room, now. I sat down on my bed, feeling my bandaged ribs creak and shift. I winced at the feeling, and Sophie waltzed over to check what was wrong. She purred and settled in my lap, rubbing her sandpaper tongue on the back of my hand. I absently stroked her back and leaned back

Tony hadn't told me who Aunt May was, only that she was dead. That didn't help much, but it was better than nothing, I suppose.

"You look exhausted, Peter," Tony said, sitting down in the chair by the door. "Try and get some more sleep."

I was always exhausted, nowadays, and sleep did nothing to remedy that. Ph well, it's not like Tony will take no for an answer.

I burrowed down deeper into the blankets, upsetting Sophie who moved to my side. My ribs shifted, sending a stab of pain reverberating through my torso.

But I didn't fall asleep very easily. My mind was in overdrive, trying to work out who Aunt May is, and my foggy memory wasn't being any help.

Tony had noticed my restlessness, I was sure of it, but he wasn't being any help, either.

Eventually, and thankfully, I fell asleep, although it was not a very deep sleep.

 **A/N: Well, there you have it! Another chapter gone by. Sorry that this one is bit all over the place, I kept picking it up and writing then rewriting over and over again.**

 **Anyway, just to clear up the whole Aunt May situation: Aunt May is dead. I may write a prequel story to this one leading up to Peter's kidnapping once I am finished with this that will explain everything a little bit better.**

 **And once again, I am very sorry that this chapter is so late!**

 **I hope you enjoyed!**

 **-Professor R.J. Lupin1**


	9. Chapter 8

**A/N: Okay, okay, I know what you're going to say, and yes, this chapter is late, but please forgive me. I've been busy lately, and although I'm sure you'd all rather skip the excuses and just read the chapter, bear with me.**

 **Yes, this chapter is late, yes, I am sorry. Anyway, I hope this chapter lives up to expectations, although it probably doesn't because I wrote this at like midnight so that's great.**

 **And once more, thank you for all the support this story has received!**

 **Any who, enjoy!**

 **WARNING: This chapter contains mentions and descriptions of torture.**

 **Chapter 8**

 _I was woken abruptly from the blissful slumber I had been rather enjoying. My eyes snapped open and I did my best to sit up. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest but I forced myself nonetheless._

 _I shivered; they had poured cold water on my body in order to wake me up, sending all the various cuts and gashes littering my bare arms, legs and chest into a painful tizzy._

 _"Up!" Mustache said harshly. The sounds slammed into my ears, rattling around my head. "Up! Now!"_

 _I shakily pushed myself onto my elbows, my arm quickly giving way and sending me collapsing back to the ground._

 _"C'mon, you worthless little shit! Get up!"_

 _I stifled a moan and forced myself onto my hands. I desperately tried to keep my shattered wrists from giving out, managing to get to my knees from sheer will power alone. I leaned heavily against the wall, panting from the effort it took to get to this stage._

 _Mustache stepped forward, his arms crossed and forced me back to the ground. I hit the cold stone, hard, my head knocking against the wall behind me. The room swam before my eyes, but I strained to stay awake. I knew how mad they got whenever I fell unconscious too quickly._

 _Mustache grabbed me by the back of my tattered shirt. He dragged my semi-conscious form out of the room and into the hallway._

 _Two weeks ago, I would have freaked out at the idea of being taken away from the dark room. The only time I could remember (which didn't mean much anymore) where I had been forced to walk through the winding underground hallways of well, wherever this place was. My legs had given out before I'd made it there and I gotten a couple of hard punches for that. They'd put me on a metal table in a white room with lots of beeping machines and men wearing white coats._

 _They'd injected some sort of liquid into my bloodstream and thrown me back into the dark room. I didn't heal very well after that._

"Hey, kid, you gotta wake up."

 _They dragged my limp body along the rough floor of the—wherever. At some point, we arrived at a heavy metal door. Mustache forced to me feet, and I disorientedly tried to stay on my feet for more than seven seconds. I stumbled through the door, the only thing keeping me from collapsing to the—grass?—was Mustache's firm, possibly too tight grip on my bloody forearm. I let a moan escape my lips, earning a sharp slap across the face._

 _Mustache shoved me forward, letting go of my arm and sending me staggering groggily through the dead grass. I could make a break for it… but I'd never get far and I knew it._

 _All the smells of the outdoors assaulted my nose before I even realized I was outside. I hated all the smells. There were only so many smells I remembered, and these were not familiar. My body had started to shake slightly._

 _A few feet in front of me, there was black van with its back door open. All the windows were blacked out and the back seat was ripped up and most of the cushions were showing. For a few, fleeting, painful moments, I stood on quaking legs, waiting for Mustache to do something, which of course he did._

 _"Come on, you worthless idiot!" He shoved me into the into door of the van and I tripped over the step on the edge of the van and fell head first into the back seat of the black van._

"Kid, c'mon, wake up. You gotta wake up."

 _I felt an excruciating, fiery spike of pain blossom in my leg as Mustache forced me further into the van. I screamed despite myself. Mustache twisted my already-broken ankle and I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood to stifle my screams of pain, a meager whimper falling from my lips._

 _"Be quiet, you worthless little shit!"_

 _Mustache closed the door of the van and entered the front seat. Scarface had gotten into the driver's seat and fired up the car. I was too exhausted to force myself to look out the window; I honestly didn't care where they took me anymore. All I wanted to do was sleep. And I tried, I really did. But every few minutes, Mustache would say something loud that would force me to stay awake, then he'd stare at me for a few seconds before going back to his own little world._

 _"So Barton's left the store now. We've got fifteen minutes," Mustache said after hours of driving._

 _Scarface threw a glance at me. I'd thrown up on the cushion twice since I'd gotten in the van and he looked at the vomit with disdain._

"Hey, c'mon, kid. I don't know what you're dreaming about, but you've gotta wake up."

 _The car lurched as it stopped, making my stomach churn. I retched, but I had nothing left to get rid of._

 _Mustache and Scarface got out the car and opened the doors to the backseat. They yanked me out of the van and threw me into the empty ditch beside the road. My head banged against the cold, hard ground, and the world started spinning. I was completely unaware of Mustache and Scarface's parting, too occupied with the terror that was now clouding my already incredibly foggy mind. What was this?_

"I'm sorry, kid, Tony and Bruce aren't here. You gotta wake up."

 _I felt bile rise to my throat and was unable to hold it in. The silence creeping in from all sides was deeply unsettling. There was always a noise in the dark room. I moaned and shifted, instantly regretting every movement I'd ever made as pain spread through my body. I bit my lip as tears welled in my eyes. My body was trembling violently._

"Peter—that's your name, right?"

 _Tears were now streaming down my cheeks but I kept quiet. Any moment, Mustache would emerge from the shadows and bring me back to the dark room._

Tears _really_ were streaming my down my face, sobs wracking my body violently. I didn't recognize the voice of whoever was talking. It didn't really matter to me, however. Their voice wasn't harsh, it didn't scare me. A deep, throaty moan issued from my mouth.

"Hey," Metal-Arm Dude from breakfast said. I recoiled from him, pulling the sheets of the bed over my chest protectively. I felt like I was drowning in terror. I scooted backward, away from Metal-Arm Dude, and I held in my terrified sobs.

Metal-Arm Dude seemed to know that I was stifling my cries and said, "Hey, Peter, right?" He didn't wait for me to answer. "Both Bruce and Tony and out on a mission right now. I'm Bucky, by the way."

I stared at Meta- _Bucky_ , fear still clouding my brain. His words only half registered with me.

"Go ahead and cry; I don't mind. God knows I've done it enough," Bucky said gently.

Okay. That makes… that makes sense.

Without my telling, tears started to slide silently down my cheeks. My shoulders tensed, waiting for the inevitable punishment. I whimpered, shutting my eyes tightly, trying to shut out the world. I wanted to pretend that there wasn't going to be more pain…

Dry sobs were echoing around the room, and it took me a few moments before realizing that they were my own. I stopped them abruptly, expecting some sort of retribution.

I heard Bucky sigh. "It's alright, you can cry. No one has a problem with it."

My sobs were quiet, almost none existent, but they slowly got louder and more heartbreaking.

Bucky lightly placed his flesh hand on my shoulder. My first instinct was to jerk away, but I didn't.

Bucky sighed again. "I know what you're going through, kid. I know what it's like to not remember anything and to have it start coming back. And I know what it's like to remember terrifying things."

I mulled over his words. Had he gone through something like I did? He didn't seem like it. He looked and sounded like he was perfectly fine. It seemed impossible—I'd been the only one there, as far as I could tell. There were never any other screams, but maybe that was because they had conditioned the others not to scream better than they had for me. My shaking grew worse at the thought.

"I'm sure Tony'll be back any minute. F.R.I.D.A.Y. alerted him," Bucky said, more to himself than to me.

The images of torture, of terror, of hopelessness danced through my mind like some sort of sick musical. I shut my eyes tightly, shutting out the world. _Relax, Peter. Relax. Everything is okay. You're not there anymore,_ I told myself bracingly.

Another whine fell involuntarily from my lips, and Bucky squeezed my shoulder a little bit. I exhaled shakily, needing the touch to keep me grounded. I was okay. Everything was okay. Everything would be okay.

Tears still streaming down my cheeks, sobs still filling the otherwise quiet room, Bucky drew my shaking form closer to his chest. I could tell how tense he was about doing this; I couldn't blame him. I probably would have been apprehensive, too.

He wrapped me in a sort of one-armed hug. My tears wet his sheet, but Bucky didn't seem to mind. Or, if he did, he didn't show it.

I don't know how long we stayed that way, Bucky's arm around my back, my sobs slowly, slowly, ebbing away. By the time Tony finally arrived, sun was peeking into the room from the windows across the hall, which meant that a considerable amount of time had passed.

To say that Tony was surprised to find Bucky still comforting me, especially since he got the alert from F.R.I.D.A.Y. six and a half hours ago. Whether he was disgruntled or happy or angered by that I'll never know.

Bucky left to change his shirt (I apologized profusely for that, but he wouldn't hear it) and Tony tried to get me to talk about my dream. Instead, I asked him about where he was that morning.

"Where were you this morning?" I asked softly.

Tony sighed and pursed his lips. "We, uh, I think we found the, uh, place you were… were held."

My breath slowed to a stop, then suddenly picked up at a way higher rate than it should've been.

"Peter? Are you alright?" Tony asked, looking straight into my eyes.

I didn't reply. It was surreal… the dark room seemed like a nightmare that never really existed in the first place… just darkness and pain and stifled screams.

Getting breathing under control, Tony continued,

"And we think we may have found the guys who did it all to you." _Beat. Beat. Beat._

"D-d-describe-e t-them," I said shakily.

"One's got this big mustache and the other's face is covered in scars, you can hardly make out his features there are so many."

 _Mustache and Scarface._

Tony kept talking, even though I didn't want to hear anymore.

"When we got them, they just started laughing manically, the one with the mustache especially. Then he said 'how's he doing? Tried to kill anyone yet?' Needless to say—are you okay?"

I had started trembling from head to toe again; Tony gently rubbed my back. "I'm sorry, Pete, I didn't mean to bother you."

"It's o-okay. I'm okay," I assured him. "I-it's not your fault."

I frowned. A question I wasn't sure I wanted answered had popped into my head.

"Who were they?" I asked quietly.

"Mustache Guy is called Jacob Fleming. Graduated from MIT about six years ago. From what we can gather, he and his scarred partner had it in for me, not you. They wanted to mess you up 'cause they knew how much you meant to me." I could see a wave of sadness wash over his eyes as he spoke. "Fleming's partner is called Wilson Graymond. Had his entire life blown up by an old Stark bomb. _I_ didn't sell the bomb, mind you. I was my old partner, but we don't need to get into that now. His face was severely messed up and his whole family was killed in the explosion. I think they thought I would come after you, and when I didn't, they decided they would really make their time with you count. These guys were off their rockers, Peter. They kept a log of everything they did to you—don't worry, I'm not going to show it to you—but it will help to get you better."

I inhaled deeply, taking in all the new information. Of course, they said that it was Tony's fault all this was happening to me, because it was him they wanted to hurt, hurting me was just a happy bonus.

It makes me want to barf.

Which I unfortunately did.

Right onto Tony's shirt.

Which I felt infinitely sorry for.

Not long after, Tony had fetched a new shirt, and was coaxing me back to sleep. He was in the middle of explaining the time that he nearly killed Clint (who's that?) because he jumped out of the vents right into Tony's lap and he thought they were being attacked when I suddenly dropped off to sleep.

I have a feeling that the IV drip in my arm had something to do with it.

 **A/N: And we have another chapter gone by! Was the villain reveal interesting? Suspenseful? Anything? If you've got any feedback, good or bad, I'm happy to hear it!**

 **Until next time,**

 **Professor R.J. Lupin1**


	10. Chapter 9

**A/N: Here is chapter nine!**

 **I'm so sorry for the delay on this chapter, I've been out of town and unable to work on this story. And, school starts for me in about a week, which unfortunately means that I probably won't be updating very often.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **Chapter 9**

Most of Tony's friends had gone off on some mission, leaving me and Tony 'alone' in the Compound. I highly doubted the fact that there was absolutely no one else in the entire building, but I didn't exactly care. I was perfectly happy to just do something with Tony and not have anything mess it up.

(More like: have _me_ mess it up. Because I always do.)

Tony had his arm slung around my shoulders as we made our way to the lounge. Sophie was trailing behind us, meowing at just about everything she saw. I insisted that I could walk on my own, and very almost had Tony convinced, too, but then I had to go and mess it up. (Like always.)

And so one thing led to another, and Tony walked with hand securely fastened on my shoulder, with his arm resting behind my neck.

Yay. Not embarrassing in the slightest.

When we eventually made it to the lounge, Sophie was quick to curl up in my lap, her fluffy tail swishing around contentedly.

"So," Tony said, settling in a cushy looking arm chair to my right. "What do you wanna watch?"

I frowned. "I don't know any movies."

That caused Tony to frown, too, and I instantly started spluttering apologies. "I'm—sorry—I didn't—sorry—"

But Tony waved them off. "'s not your fault, Pete."

I sank back into the soft couch cushions, petting Sophie's fluffy coat, the tension not easing from my muscles.

"Well," Tony said, trying to remedy the situation. "you used to like Star Wars. How about we watch that?"

"Okay."

Tony said something to lady in the ceiling, and the TV at the front of the room turned on.

I tried to focus on the movie, but I was finding it harder and harder to concentrate. For one thing, Sophie was restless, and kept rolling around in my lap, batting my face with her tail. It probably didn't help that I had the feeling that something horrible was about to happen. But that was a normal feeling when watching a movie, right? One gets this weird feeling in their stomach right before someone dies. Right?

I had to assume that my distress didn't show on my face, since Tony didn't seem to be worried. Or, maybe it was just 'cause he'd fallen asleep.

The movie continued to play on the screen for a good half an hour before Tony woke up. A whole half an hour where I was alone with my thoughts and attempting to watch a movie that I couldn't interest myself in.

Sophie had gotten up and left the room, and my lap felt cold in her absence. I could hear her meowing down the hall.

Tony seemed to have noticed that I wasn't focusing on the movie and how tense I still was.

"Hey, kid, relax. We're safe here," Tony said, but I didn't feel any more safe. I couldn't shake the feeling that something horrible was about to happen.

When the end credits started to roll, I realized I couldn't tell anyone the name of the main character, let alone the plot of the movie I just devoted two hours of my life to. And for some reason, that felt horribly wrong.

Suddenly, my musing was interrupted. The screen had shut off, as had all the lights in the room, hurling Tony and I into total darkness.

"F.R.I.D.A.Y.?" Tony called to the ceiling. There was no reply.

I picked up the sound of someone walking slowly down the hall; and then the fierce hiss of Sophie as she attempted to stop the intruder. I heard her yelp and the sound of her body hitting the ground. I bit back a whimper.

"Well, well, well," a chilling voice echoed that only I recognized. "Tony Stark. What a pleasure it is to finally meet you."

My body seized up. I knew who this was.

Mustache.

 **A/N: Ooooh, a cliffhanger! Hopefully, I won't have to leave you guys hanging for too long on this one.**

 **I know this chapter is pretty short, but the next one will be longer, I swear. A lot of stuff is going down next time.**

 **Until then,**

 **I hope you enjoyed!**


	11. Chapter 10

**A/N: Okay so I'm really excited to post this chapter but at the same time I'm terrified because just… wow.**

 **(I want to apologize in advance)**

… **Enjoy**

 **WARNING FOR MENTIONS AND DESCRIPTIONS OF TORTURE**

 **Chapter 10**

Mustac… Fleming stalked out of the shadows and crossed the room slowly to where I was seated on the couch. I noticed a small knife in his hand. Instead of heading for Tony, as I expected, he casually placed the knife on my forehead. He was as nonchalant as someone simply asking about the weather.

I sucked in a breath, trying to lean away from the blade. Fleming put a hand on the back of my head, forcing it forward into the knife. I bit my lip and squeezed my eyes shut.

"So, Mr. Stark," Fleming said. His voice was a smooth, bored drawl. He spoke in a tone similar to asking someone about their weekend, and it made me want to throttle him. "I've been waiting forever to meet you. I like to think I'm your _biggest fan_. I own all the merchandise. I even, for a spell, owned your son. It's the highest honor a fan can have."

I opened my eyes and saw an appalled look on Tony's face. As I watched, Wilson Graymond prowled behind Tony, holding a needle that I figured I knew the purpose of.

"Ah, yes," Fleming said in the same, bored, drawling voice. "I forgot to introduce my colleague, Wilson Graymond. Wilson was, unfortunately, rendered mute after one of _your_ " Fleming jerked his head to Tony "bombs killed his family and severely mauled his face."

Tony once again looked disgusted at this notion, but Fleming didn't stop talking.

"I've been planning this day for years, Mr. Stark. _Years_ ," he drawled. "Ever since I first saw all your fancy success, all your fame and fortune, while I got nothing. _Nothing_!" Fleming pressed the knife deeper into my skin.

"You see, Mr. Stark, I started life as Jacob Cardiff, as in 'Cardiff Foundation'. I'm sure you've heard of it. Famous for its success, famous for its failure! And, ah, Henry Cardiff, credited as the smartest man of his time, perhaps, even smarter than your own father. Henry Cardiff, such a man! But, alas, not such a father. That's right; I am Henry Cardiff's spawn. His worst invention yet.

"Yes," Fleming continued. "I was not smart enough for my father. He refused to admit blood relation to such a failure as I supposedly was. But I was smart; and I still am, he was just too blind to see it. Or, perhaps, he just didn't want to accept the possibility of someone smarter than him.

"He forced me to revert to my mother's maiden name, _Fleming_ , as to not assert that we were related, because I was _such a disappointment_. But I managed to steal enough money from him to get a full degree and masters from MIT, and he was none the wiser. Really goes to show just how smart he really was, eh?"

Fleming—or should I call him Cardiff? —slowly dragged the knife across my forehead. I inhaled sharply, feeling pain bloom across my face, following the blood that began to trickle down to my cheeks. Across the room, I saw Tony's eyes flash with terror at the sight of my blood.

A maniacal grin spread across Cardiff's face as he pressed the knife deeper into my skin.

"I thought you would come for your son, Mr. Stark. But I was mistaken. Perhaps, you just don't care enough." Cardiff's voice had gained a frenzied edge to it that made me even more scared for my life. "I thought for so many years that the boy in front of me was biologically yours. Ever since you began to see him, I believed that he was yours and you refused to admit it. But perhaps I was wrong."

I glanced at Tony again. He seemed to be momentarily frozen, like he had forgotten how to move, and Graymond took his hesitation as a chance to insert some sort of needle into his arm. A drug, I figured. I thought Tony might try to fight him off, but he hardly seemed to notice the needle. All of his attention seemed to be on the knife that was now hovering just below my Adam's apple.

Cardiff chuckled. "Oh Mr. Stark. I'm not going to kill him. Not yet, at least. I'm going to have some fun first." And with that, he plunged the already-bloody knife into my shoulder.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to ignore the throbbing pain that had blossomed in my shoulder and was now quickly spreading down my arm. I exhaled sharply when he pulled the dagger from my skin, reveling in the blood that now coated the blade.

Tony's eyes widened at the sight of the wound in my shoulder. I resolutely stared away from it, and I had the feeling that Tony was doing the same.

Cardiff relished in the blood for another moment before shoving the knife into my other shoulder.

And then he _twisted_.

I yelped in pain and tried to fight him off, but he held firm. The knife wasn't going anywhere unless he wanted it to.

Cardiff ripped the blade from my shoulder and turned around. I thought for one, fleeting, hopeful second that he had finished.

But when he turned around, there was something white in his hand. For a moment I thought he was holding snow or sugar, but then it hit me:

He was literally going to rub salt into the wound.

I tried to pull away from him, but Cardiff gripped my arm firmly and poured the salt onto shoulder. It cascaded into the open wound, and it immediately felt like someone had thrown a box of lit matches into the cut. I screamed, my vision swimming as Cardiff moved to the other shoulder. My scream returned with renewed vigor as salt entered the second gash.

I couldn't bear to look at Tony, if I could even make out his face. I thought I could hear Cardiff saying something, but I couldn't focus on his words.

"You see, Mr. Stark? … I won't kill him, yet… drive you insane… and I will finally get the recognition I deserve!"

I firmly shut my eyes, willing away the pain, but I opened them again when I felt Cardiff grip my leg. The leg he had mangled…

Cardiff said something again, and then he clenched his hands around my thigh, twisting. I bit my lip, trying to stop myself from my screaming.

Cardiff tightly grasped my left wrist and twisted. I desperately pulled away, hissing in pain.

"So, Mr. Stark," Cardiff said. He twisted my pinky finger until a small _snap_ echoed through the room. "As I said previously," _snap_ "I think I will kill him when I am satisfied," _snap_ "And as of yet," _snap_ "I am not satisfied." _Snap._

He dropped my arm onto the couch, and pain shot up my arm. I hissed again as he grabbed my other wrist and broke it, too. My limp, painful arm flopped onto the couch, exploding in pain. I moaned, slumping, forcing my eyes shut as Cardiff started to cut down my leg.

I screamed, desperately pulling away from Cardiff as pain buzzed through my head while my ears started ringing. He dragged the knife down my leg and weakly tried to push him away.

And suddenly someone shot a bullet straight through Cardiff's head.

I screamed in surprise as Cardiff fell to the ground, lifeless, blood leaking from the hole in his head.

Someone moved quickly into the room, holding… holding a shield? I feebly turned my head, trying to place who entered the room, but everything was so… so shaky… and blurry… and… and… painful… hurts… _hurts_ …

Black was seeping into my vision as Tony approached. It seemed like he was stumbling, his body not cooperating. I slumped against the arm of the couch before he reached me, trying to fight the beckoning of unconsciousness… have to… have to stay… stay awake… awake… awake means sleep… sleep…

And my eyes slipped close as someone lifted me from the couch.

"Peter… stay awake… c'mon, bud… stay awake…" Tony slurred as I fell deeper beneath the pool.

 **A/N: Whew! That was quite the ride, right? I'll hopefully have another chapter out soon, but… you know…** _ **school…**_

 **-Professor R.J Lupin1**


	12. Chapter 11

**A/N: Alright, so after that** _ **thing**_ **that was the last chapter, this one pales in comparison, so there's that.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **Chapter 11**

Hurts… hurts… _hurts_ …

My head was throbbing, and I was so tired I could hardly even think. I wanted to stay awake, I wanted to go back to Tony, I didn't want to return to the bottom of the pool.

But I was so _tired_.

Before I could even tell it had happened, I slid back under the water.

…

When I woke again, someone was brushing hair off my forehead reassuringly. It only took me a few moments to recognize Tony's calloused hands.

"Hey, buddy. I need you to wake up, okay?"

Words… words are too loud. Silence… silence is good. Silence is bliss. Can't Tony understand that?

"Mmm…" I mumbled inaudibly. I rolled onto my side and instantly regretted it as pain in my shoulder spiked. My eyes shot open and I gasped for breath.

For a moment Tony looked surprised but quickly came to his senses and started rubbing my back as I tried to get breath back into my lungs.


End file.
